oet  Hore  $lap£{ 


AND  PIPPA  DANCES 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN 


Richard   G.  Badger,    Publisher,    Boston 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


VOLUME    XVIII  AUTUMN    I907  NUMBER   III 

AND  PIPPA  DANCES* 

[A  mystical  tale  of  the  glass-works,  in  four  acts) 

By  Gerhart  Hauptmann 
Translated  from  the  German  by  Mary  Harned 

CHARACTERS 

Tagliazoni,  skilled  Italian  glass-worker 

PiPPA,  his  daughter 

The  Manager  of  the  glass-works 

Old  Huhn,  a  former  glass-blower 

Michael  Hellriegel,  a  travelling  journeyman 

Wann,  a  mythical  personality 

Wende,  landlord  of  the  tavern  at  Redwater  Glen 

The  Bar-maid,  in  the  same  tavern 

Schaedler,    )  1  • 

.  >  master  piass-painters 

Anton,  j  ^        ^ 

First,  second,  third,  fourth  woodmen 

Jonathan,  deaf  and  dumb  servant  to  Wann 

Glass-blowers  and  glass-painters,  guests  at  the  tavern 

A  goitrous  player  on  the  ocarina 

The  scene  is  laid  in  the  Silesian  mountains,  in  midwinter 

ACT  I 

The  bar-room  in  old  Wende' s  tavern  at  Redwater  Glen.  To  the  right 
and  in  the  background,  doors,  the  latter  leading  into  the  entrance  hall.  In 
the  corner,  right,  the  stove  of  glazed  tiles;  left,  the  bar.  Very  small  windows 
benches  against  the  walls,  ceiling  of  dark  timbers.  Three  tables  to  the  left, 
all  occupied.  The  nearest  to  the  bar  is  occupied  by  woodmen.  They  are 
drinking  schnaps  and  beer  and  smoking  pipes.  At  the  second  table  a  little 
further  forward,  are  seated  better  dressed  people:  the  master  glass-painters, 

*Pippa  tanzt.  Ein  Glashiitten-marchen  in  4  akten  von  Gerhart  Hauptmann. 
Copyright  igo6  by  S.  Fischer  Verlag. 
Copyright  1907  by  the  Poet  Lore  Company. 


290  AND   PIPPA   DANCES 

SihorJlfr  and  Atttotiy  o  fnv  others  onJ  an  Italian  about  fifty  years  of  age^ 
name' J  Tagliazoni^  an  tnsolent-looking  man.  Tlicy  are  playing  cards. 
At  the  table  nearest  the  front  of  the  stagCy  the  Manager  of  the  glass-ivorks 
has  seated  himself;  he  is  a  tally  slendery  keen-looking  man  %vith  a  small 
heady  and  is  about  forty  years  of  age.  He  wears  ri ding-boots,  trousers,  and 
jacket.  A  half  bottle  of  champagne  stands  in  front  of  him,  and  a  fine,  pointed 
wine  glass  filled  ivith  the  champagne.  On  the  table  near  them  lies  a  riding- 
whip.  It  is  after  midnight.  Outside,  the  iveather  is  bitter  cold.  A  few 
lamps  spread  a  meager  light.  Moonlight  penetrates  through  the  windows 
into  the  smoky  room.  The  old  landlord  fVende  and  a  country  bar-maid 
serve  the  guests. 

fVende  {gray  haired,  with  an  impassive,  serious  face,  says  to  the  Man- 
ager).    Another  half  bottle,  sir  ? 

The  Manager. —  What  else,  Wende  ?  —  A  whole  one!  —  Has  my  mare 
been  well  rubbed  down  ? 

Wende. —  I  saw  to  it  myself.  An  animal  like  that  deserves  good 
care;  it  looked  like  a  white  horse  it  was  so  covered  with  foam. 

The  Manager. —  Hard  riding! 

Wende. —  Government  horse. 

The  Manager. —  She  has  good  blood  in  her!  Several  times  she  stuck 
in  the  snow  up  to  her  belly.     Pushed  through,  every  time! 

Wende  {mildly  ironical). —  A  faithful  old  customer,  our  manager. 

The  Manager  {drums  on  the  table,  laughs  noisily). — It  is  queer,  isn't  it } 
A  r\vo  hour  ride  through  the  woods,  in  January,  old  fellow  —  ludicrous 
devotion!     Are  my  trout  nearly  ready.'' 

Wende. —  A  good  thing  is  worth  waiting  for! 

The  Manager. —  True,  true,  true!  But  don't  be  disagreeable!  —  Is 
it  my  fault  that  you  are  here  in  this  half  Bohemian,  half  German  thieves' 
den,  Wende  ? 

Wende. —  Of  course  not,  sir!  At  the  most  it  could  only  be  your  fault 
if  I  have  to  get  out  of  here. 

The  Manager. —  You  old  grumbler,  stop  talking! 

Wende. —  Just  look  out  the  window  there! 

The  Manager. —  I  know  it  all  without  looking,  our  old  rival  factory 
all  in  ruins.  One  of  these  days  it  will  be  sold  for  the  material  in  it,  just 
so  that  they  won't  be  forever  starting  up  the  furnaces  again. —  What  have 
you  to  complain  of."*  Business  is  very  good  here!  The  men  come  here 
anyhow,  if  it  does  take  them  two  or  three  hours,  and  leave  their  money 
here,  heaps  of  it. 

Wende. — How  long  is  the  trouble  going  to  last .''     When  the  glass-works 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  291 

near  here  were  running  their  two   furnaces,  we  were   sure  of  eating  our 
bread  in  peace  —  now  we  are  reduced  to  hving  hke  hogs. 

The  Manager. —  Oh,  you  old  sore-head !  Go  see  to  it  that  I  get  my 
wine! 

{Wende  goes  away  shrugging  his  shoulders.  At  the  table  where  the 
players  are  an  altercation  has  arisen.) 

Tagliazont  (violently). — Non,  signore!  non,  signore!  impossible!  I 
did  put  down  a  gold  piece.  Non,  signore!  You  are  mistaken!  Non, 
signore — 

Master  Schaedler. —  Hold  on  there!     That's  a  damned  lie! 

Tagliazoni. —  Non,  signore!  by  Bacco!  Thieves!  Thieves!  Murderers! 
I'll  kill  you! 

Master  Anton  {to  Schaedler). —  There  lies  your  money! 

Master  Schaedler  {discovers  the  missing  gold  piece). —  That  was  lucky 
for  you,  you  damned,  lousy  hedgehog! 

The  Manager  {calling  across  to  the  players). —  See  here,  you  scoundrels, 
when  are  you  going  to  stop  this  ? 

Master  Anton. —  When  our  manager  rides  home. 

The  Manager. —  By  that  time  very  Hkely  you'll  run  behind  my  nag 
naked,  for  you'll  have  gambled  the  shirts  off  your  backs. 

Master  Anton. —  We'll  see  about  that,  sir! 

The  Manager. —  This  all  comes  from  the  count's  allowing  you  to  make 
such  a  sinful  amount  of  money.  I  shall  have  to  cut  your  wages  on  piece 
work.     The  more  you  have,  the  more  you  squander! 

Master  Anton. —  The  count  earns  money,  the  Manager  earns  money, 
and  the  master-painters  have  no  wish  to  starve  either. 

Tagliazoni  [has  shuffled  the  cards  and  now  begins  a  new  game.  Near 
each  player  lie  actual  piles  of  gold). —  Enough!     Let  us  begin  now. 

The  Manager. —  Where  is  your  daughter  today  ? 

Tagliazoni. —  Asleep,  signore!     Time  for  her  to  be,  it  seems  to  me. 

The  Manager. —  Of  course!     Quite  right!     Yes,  yes! 

(He  IS  silent,  apparently  slightly  embarrassed.  In  the  meantime^ 
Wende  himself  places  the  trout  before  him  and  directs  the  bar-maid  who  brings 
in  the  potatoes  and  the  bottle  of  champagne  at  the  same  time.) 

The  Manager  {with  a  sigh). —  It's  abominably  dull  here  at  your  place 
today,  Wende.      I  spend  such  a  lot  of  money  and  get  nothing  for  it. 

fVende  {stops  short  in  his  zealous  efforts  for  his  guest  and  says  churl" 
ishly). —  Well,  in  future  you  better  go  elsewhere. 

The  Manager  {turns  round  and  looks  through  the  little  U'lndoiu  behind 
htm). —  Who's  this  coming  Jinghng  over  the  snow  .»*  —  It  sounds  as  if  he 
were  stamping  over  broken  glass. 


292  AND   PIPPA  DANCES 

ff'etide  —  Well,  there's  plenty  of  broken  glass  around  the  old  tumble- 
down glass-house. 

The  Manager. —  A  gigantic  shadow!     Who  can  it  possibly  be? 

fVcnJe  [breathes  on  the  winJow). —  Most  likely  it's  Huhn,  the  old 
glass-blower.  Another  of  the  ghosts  from  the  old  glass-works  that  can 
neither  live  nor  die. —  You,  with  your  Sophienau  works,  have  ruined 
business  here  sure  enough;  why  don't  you  carry  this  on  as  a  branch  estab- 
lishment .'' 

The  Manager. —  Because  there's  no  profit  in  it,  and  it  costs  a  devilish 
lot  of  money.  {Continuing  to  look  out  of  the  window.)  Thermometer 
at  zero!  Clear!  Bright  as  broad  day-light!  The  heavens  so  full  of 
stars  they  drive  you  mad!  Blue,  everything  blue!  {He  turns  and  bends 
over  his  plate.)  Even  the  trout  —  Lord,  how  the  little  wretches  stretch 
their  mouths! 

{A  gigantic  jnan  enters.  He  has  long,  red  hair,  red,  bushy  eyebrows 
and  red  beard,  and  is  coveted  from  top  to  toe  with  rags.  He  puts  off  his 
heavy  wooden  clogs,  stares  around  with  red-rimmed,  watery  eyes,  at  the  same 
time  muttering  to  himself  and  opening  and  closing  moist,  puffy  lips.) 

The  Manager  {eating  the  trout  evidently  without  appetite). —  Old 
Huhn!  He  is  muttering  something  to  himself.  Get  old  Huhn  a  good  stiff 
grog,  Wende!  —  Well,  why  do  you  keep  your  eyes  fastened  on  me  ^ 

{Still  muttering  to  himself  and  staring  at  the  Manager,  old  Huhn  has 
pushed  himself  behind  an  empty  table  standing  against  the  right  wall  between 
the  stove  and  the  door.) 

First  Woodman. —  He  won't  believe  it,  that  there's  no  more  work 
here  in  Redwater  Glen. 

Second  Woodman. —  They  say  he  often  comes  round  and  haunts  the 
old  place  over  there  at  all  hours  of  the  night  alone. 

First  Woodman. —  He  makes  himself  a  fire  there,  in  a  chilled  furnace, 
and  stands  in  front  of  his  old  furnace  door  and  blows  great  big  glass  balls. 

Second  Woodman. —  His  lungs  are  like  a  pair  of  bellows.  No  one  else 
could  ever  come  up  to  him  at  that,  I  know! 

Third  Woodman. —  What's  old  Jacob  doing,  Huhn?  That's  his  way; 
he  never  talks  to  a  human  being  but  he  has  a  jackdaw  at  home  and  he  talks 
to  him  the  w^hole  day  long. 

The  Manager. —  Why  is  the  fellow  idle,  why  doesn't  he  come  to  us  ? 
He  could  have  work  at  the  Sophienau  furnaces. 

First  Woodman. — That's  too  far  out  in  the  great  world  for  him. 

The  Manager. —  When  you  look  at  the  old  man  and  think  of  Paris, 
you  don't  believe  in  Paris. 


GERHART   HAUPTMANN  293 

Wende  {seats  himself  modestly  at  the  Manager  s  table).  —  Have  you  been 
to  Paris  again  ? 

The  Manager. —  I  came  back  just  three   days    ago.     Got    some    big 

orders! 

Wende. —  Well,  that  was  worth  while. 

The  Manager. —  Worth  while! — You  spend  money  and  get  some: 
only  more!  —  Ever}'thing  seems  crazy  when  you  get  to  Paris,  Wende: 
restaurants  all  lighted  up!  duchesses  in  gold  and  silk  and  Brussels  lace! 
the  ladies  of  the  Palais-Royal!  on  the  tables  our  glasses,  the  finest  crystal; 
things  which  perhaps  a  hairy  giant  like  that  one  made! — Thunderation, 
what  a  sight  it  is!  To  see  a  real  slender,  dehcate  hand  Hft  one  of  these 
glass  flowers,  one  of  these  precious  ice  flowers  over  the  bare  bosom  to  the 
hot,  painted  lips,  with  passionate  glances:  —  you  wonder  that  the  glasses 
don't  melt  away  under  such  a  sinful  glance.—  Your  health!  {He  drinks.) 
Your  health,  Wende!  The  things  that  come  from  our  works  are  not 
recognizable  there. 

The  Bar-maid  {setting  the  grog  down  in  front  of  old  Huhn). —  Don  t 
touch  it!     Hot! 

{Old  Huhn  picks  up  the  glass  and  gulps  doivn  the  grog  without  further 

ado.) 

The  Manager  {noticing  this). —  Good  Lord,  preserve  us! 

{The  woodmen  burst  out  laughing.) 

First  Woodman. —  Just  pay  for  another  half  quart  and  you  can  see 
him  swallow  glowing  coals. 

Second  Woodman. —  He  hits  a  oeer  mug  —  breaks  it  to  pieces,  nibbles 
at  the  broken  bits  as  if  they  were  sugar  and  swallows  them. 

Third  Woodman. —  But  you  should  just  see  him  dance  with  the  litttle 
Italian  girl  when  blind  Francis  plays  the  ocarina. 

The  Manager. —  Come,  Francis,  bring  out  your  ocarina!  {Calls  to 
Tagliazoni).      Ten  lire,  if  Pippa  dances. 

Tagliazoni  {playing). —  It  won't  go.     Impossible,  signore  padrone. 

The  Manager. —  Twenty  lire! — Thirty — .''  — 

Tagliazoni. —  No! 

Wende. —  She  is  having  such  a  good  sleep,  sir. 

The  Manager  {without  waverings  suddenly  vehement). —  Forty?  — 
Do  let  a  little  of  hell  loose  for  awhile!  It's  so  dull  here!  What  do  I  come 
here  for?  Not  even  a  lousy  Gypsy  girl!  I'll  not  set  foot  again  in  this 
smugglers'  nest!        {Offering  more.)      Fifty  lire! 

Tagliazoni  {continues  playing,  says  obstinately  over  his  shoulder).— 
No!  no!  no!  no!  no!  no! 


294  AND   PIPPA  DANCES 

The  Manager. —  A  hundred  lire! 

TagUazoni  {curtly). —  A  hundred,  yes! 

{He  twists  himself  around,  and  skillfully  catches  a  blue  banknote  which 
the  Manager  tosses  to  him). 

The  Manager  {losing  something  of  his  equanimity). —  Has  my  lioness 
had  anything  to  eat  ? 

The  Bar-maid. —  Certainly,  sir,  the  dog  has  eaten. 

The  Manager  {roughly). —  Be  quiet. 

The  Bar-maid. —  When  you  ask  a  question,  I  certainly  have  to 
answer. 

The  Manager  (curtly,  ivith  suppressed  anger). —  Be  still,  hold  your 
dirty  tongue!  —  Don't  smoke  such  asafoetida,  you  pack!  —  How  is  the 
child  to  breathe  here. 

TagUazoni  {has  risen  and  gone  to  the  hall  door  from  which  he  calls 
harshly  to  the  upper  part  of  the  house). — Pippa!  Pippa!  Come  down  here 
right-away!  Pippa!     Come  here! — Come  along! 

The  Manager  (rises  indignantly). —  Hold  your  tongue,  let  her  sleep, 
you  Dago  scoundrel! 

TagUazoni. —  Pippa! 

The  Manager. —  Keep  your  money,  fellow,  and  let  her  sleep!  Keep 
your  money,  fellow,  I  don't  want  her! 

TagUazoni. —  As  you  wish.     Thank  you,  signore!  — 

(With  a  fatalistic  shrug  of  the  shoulders  he  takes  his  place  again  uncon- 
cernedly at  the  card-table.) 

The  Manager. —  Saddle  my  horse,  Wende!  Get  the  nag  out  of  the 
stable! 

(Pippa  appears  in  the  doorway;  she  leans  sleepily  and  timidly  against 
the  door-post.) 

The  Manager  (notices  her  and  says  with  some  embarrassment).  —  Here 
she  is,  now!  —  Pshaw,  Pippa,  go  and  have  your  nap  out!  —  Or  haven't 
you  been  asleep  ?  —  Come,  wet  your  lips,  moisten  your  lips,  here's  some- 
thing for  you. 

{Pippa  comes  obediently  to  the  table  and  sips  from  the  glass  of  cham- 
pagne.) 

The  Manager  (holding  toward  her  the  richly  ornamented  glass,  from 
which  he  drinks). —  Slender  convolvulus!  Slender  convolvulus!  It,  too, 
is  a  Venetian!  —  Does  it  taste  good  to  you,  little  one  .''  — 

Pippa. —  Thank  you,  it  is  sweet! 

The  Manager. —  Do  you  want  to  sleep  again,  now  ? 

Pippa. —  No. 


GERHART   HAUPTMANN  295 

The  Manager. —  Are  you  very  cold  ? 

Ptppa. —  I  am  cold  here,  most  of  the  time. 

The  Manager. —  Make  a  roaring  fire,  there!  —  It  does  not  surprise 
me  in  the  least  that  you  are  so  cold,  you  delicate,  graceful  tendril,  you! 
Come,  sit  down,  put  my  cloak  around  you!  You  must  have  sprung  from 
the  glass  furnaces;  at  least,  I  dreamed  you  had,  yesterday. 

Pippa. —  Brr!    I  like  to  sit  close  to  the  glass  furnaces. 

The  Manager. —  In  my  dream,  you  liked  best  to  sit  right  in  them. 
You  see,  I  am  a  foolish  fellow!  An  old  ass  of  a  manager,  who,  instead 
of  casting  up  accounts,  dreams.  When  the  white-hot  glow  breaks  from 
the  furnace  doors,  I  often  see  you  before  me,  quivering  salamanderlike 
in  the  glowing. air.  Only  as  the  furnace  light  grows  dim,  do  you  slowly 
vanish.  , 

Old  Huhn. —  I  too,  have  had  beautiful  dreams  before  the  furnace 
doors.  i 

The  Manager. —  What  is  that  monster  muttering,  now  t 

(Pippa  turns  her  little  head  persistently  and  looks  at  the  old  man,  and 
at  the  same  time,  pushes  her  heavy,  fair,  unbound  hair  over  her  shoulder 
with  her  right  hand.) 

Old  Huhn. —  Shall  we  dance  again,  little  spirit  ? 

The  Manager  {roughly). —  What  are  you  talking  about!  I  no  longer 
care  for  the  dancing!  {Aside,  to  Pippa.)  I  am  satisfied  just  to  have 
you  here,  charming  child! 

The  Bar-maid  {behind  the  bar,  to  the  inn-keeper). —  Now  the  Manager 
is  in  a  good  humor  again. 

Wende. —  Well,  if  he  is,  what  business  is  it  of  yours  ? 

The  Manager. —  Tired!  Go  sleep,  poor  thing!  You  belong  in  courts 
with  the  fountains!  —  And  you  have  to  stay  in  this  gin  shop.  Shall  I  take 
you,  just  as  you  are,  lift  you  on  my  black  horse  and  ride  away  with  you  ? 

{Pippa  shakes  her  head  slowly  no.) 

The  Manager. —  So  you  like  it  better  here  .?  Well,  at  any  rate,  you 
are  shaking  your  little  head  no  again. —  How  long  have  you  been  living 
in  this  house  ? 

Pippa  (reflects,  stares  at  him  blankly). —  I  don't  know. 

The  Manager. —  And  before  you  came  here,  where  did  you  live  ^ 

Pippa  (reflects,  laughs  at  her  ignorance). —  It  was  —  Why,  haven't 
I  always  been  here  ? 

The  Manager. —  You.?  in  the  midst  of  dumb  and  talking  tree  trunks! 

Pippa.--\\'\r^t? 

The  Manager. —  In   this   frozen,  snow-bound   land  of  barbarians  .? — 


296  AND   PIPPA  DANCES 

{Callttig  across    to   TagUazoni.)       Where   did    you    say  her    mother    came 
from  ? 

Tngliazont   {over  his  shoulder). —  Yes,  signore!    Pieve  di  Cadore. 

The  Mauacrcr. —  Pieve  di  Cadore,  is  that  so  ?     That  is  on  the  other 

o 

side  of  the  trreat  water-shed. 

TiigUazoni  {laughing). — We  are  relatives  of  the  great  Tiziano,  signore. 

The  Manager. —  Well,  little  one,  then,  perhaps  we  too,  are  kindred, 
for  he  looks  like  my  uncle,  the  Commissioner  of  Woods  and  Forests.  So 
you  really  belong  half  and  half  here  too;  but  the  wind  blows  your  gold 
hair  elsewhere! 

[A  goitrous,  tattered  little  man  comes  in,  playing  the  ocarina,  and  plants 
himself  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  He  is  greeted  with  a  halloo  by  the  wood- 
men who  are  sitting  round  one  of  the  tables  smoking  and  drinking  schnaps.) 

First  Woodmari. —  Huhn  must  dance! 

Second  fVoodman. —  The  little  one  must  dance! 

Third  Woodman. — ^^  If  she'll  dance,  I'll  give  a  nickel  toward  it. 

Fourth  fVoodman. —  Just  look  what  faces  Huhn  is  making! 

The  Manager. —  There's  not  going  to  be  any  dancing,  you  clod- 
hoppers!    Do  you  understand  me? 

First  Woodman. — You  wanted  it  yourself,  sir! 

The  Manager. —  The  devil  take  me!     Well,  now  I  don't  want  it! 

{Huhn  rises  to  his  full  height  and  starts  to  come  out  from  behind  the 
table,  but  never  takes  his  eyes  from  Pippa,  staring  at  her  feverishly  all  the 
time.) 

The  Manager. —  Sit  down,  Huhn! 

Wende  {comes  forward  resolutely  and  determinedly  and  seizes  Huhn's 
arm). —  Sit  down!  Not  a  twitch!  —  You'll  stamp  through  my  floor  next 
thing.  {To  the  ocarina  player).  Stop  your  silly  tootling.  {Huhn  remains 
standing,  staring  stupidly  as  before.      The  ocarina  is  silent.) 

{The  card  players  have  finished  another  game.  Tagliazoni  pockets 
a  little  pile  of  gold.  Master-painter  Anton  jumps  up  suddenly  and  thumps 
the  table  with  his  fist,  so  that  the  gold  pieces  roll  all  round  the  room.) 

Master-painter  Anton. —  There's  someone  among  us  who's  cheating! 

Tagliazoni.—  Who  .?!.?!  ?     Tell  us!     Who  .? 

Master-painter  Anton. —  I  don't  say  who  it  is!  I  only  say  someone 
is!     There's  some  trickery  here. 

First  Woodman. —  Well,  any  one  who  plays  with  these  Italians  may 
expect  a  little  of  the  black  art  thrown  in. 

Master-painter  Schaedler. —  My  money  has  disappeared,  the  last 
piece  of  my  money  is  missing. 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  297 

First  Woodman.—  Just  look  out,  the  lamp's  going  out  in  a  minute! 
He'll  probably  put  up  some  nice  little  game  on  you. 

The  Manager.— \Ne\\,  don't  let  rascals  hold  the  bank! 

Tagliazom  {scooping  in  the  money  unconcernedly,  turning  half  round 
to  the  manager).— A\tvo\  The  others  are  rascals,  not  I.  Enough!  Let's 
go  to  bed!     Pippa,  go  on!     Come  along! 

Master-painter  Anton.— V^h^t^  Now  he  wants  to  go  to  bed,  no\y, 
when  he  has  gotten  our  money  away  from  us  ?  You'll  stay  here!  There's 
going  to  be  some  more  playing  now! 

r«^//azom.— Oh,  very  well!     Why  not  ?     I'll  play  with  you!     As  you 

wish!     As  you  wish,  signori! 

(The  bar-maid,  the  inn-keeper,  the  ocarina  player,  one  of  the  glass 
painters  and  one  of  the  woodmen  pick  up  the  gold  pieces  from  the  floor.)       _ 

Second  Woodman  {at  the  table).— \  won't  help  look  for  money  m  this 
place,  because  later,  they're  sure  to  say  some  of  it  is  missing. 
1;^^^  {Michael  Hellriegel,  a  travelling  journeyman,  about  twenty-three  years 
old,  enters  from  the  hall;  he  carries  a  thin  visor  cap,  and  a  small  knapsack 
with  a  brush  buckled  on  it;  his  coat  as  well  as  his  vest  and  trousers  are  still 
fairly  respectable,  his  shoes,  on  the  contrary,  are  worn  out.  The  effects  of 
a  long  and  fatiguing  walking  tour  are  plainly  shown  in  the  wan  and  exhausted 
looks  and  movements  of  the  youth.  His  features  are  delicate,  not  common- 
place, indeed  almost  distinguished.  On  his  upper  lip  there  is  the  soft  down 
of  a  first  mustache.  There  is  a  suggestion  of  the  visionary  and  also  a  sug- 
gestion of   sickliness  in  the  slender  figure.) 

The  Bar-maid.— Oh,   Lord,   here's   a  journeyman  yet,   at  this   time 

of  night!  Ill 

Hellriegel  [stands  in  the  circle  of  light  cast  by  the  lamps,  blinded  by 
the  biting  smoke,  winking  and  looking  out  feverishly  from  under  his  long 
lashes;  he  twists  his  cap  with  his  hands  and  makes  an  effort  to  conceal  how 
much  his  hands  and  feet  ache  with  the  frost).—  Is  there  a  night's  lodging  here 
for  a  travelling  journeyman  ?  ... 

The  Manager.— A  queer  fellow,  Pippa,  isn't  he?  {Humming  ironi- 
cally.) To  those  whom  God  wishes  to  show  great  favor,  he  sends  — and 
so  on.  This  fellow  sings,  too,  when  he  has  his  wits  about  him.  I  bet  him 
thirteen  bottles  of  champagne,  he  even  has  poems  of  his  own  in  his  knapsack! 

Pippa  {rises  mechanically,  and  with  a  certain  embarrassment,  looks 
now  at  the  lad,  now  helplessly  at  the  rest  of  the  men  around  her;  suddenly 
she  runs  up  to  the  Manager).— Va(\nmt\  Padrone!  the  stranger  is  weeping! 

The  Manager. —  Weak  and  fine 

Is  not  in  my  line! 


298  AND   PIPPA   DANCES 

Mastt'r-paniter  SchatJlir  [comes  over  from  llie  card  table  and  stands 
in  a  military  position  before  the  Manager). —  I  am  a  man  of  honor,  sir! 

The  Manager. —  Well,  what  then  ?  Why  do  you  say  that  to  me  now, 
after  midnight,  in  this  Iser  mountain  tavern  ? 

Master-painter  Schaedlcr  [luipes  the  cold  sweat  from  his  forehead). — 
I  am  an  irreproachable  master-workman. 

The  Manager. —  Well,  what  of  it  ? 

Master-painter  Schaedler. —  I  would  like  to  have  some  money  advanced 
me. 

TJie  Manager.—  Do  you  think  I  drag  the  office  safe  around  with  me 
in  mv  riding-coat .'' 

Master-painter  Schaedler. —  On  your  own  account!  — 

The  Manager. —  On  my  own  account  I'll  not  think  of  it!  I  should 
only  help  to  ruin  you  completely. 

Master-painter  Schaedler. — That  dog  has  fleeced  everyone  of  us. 

The  Manager. —  Why  do  you  play  with  him  ?  Have  nothing  more  to 
do  with  the  scoundrel. 

Master-painter  Schaedler.- —  We'll  have  something  to  do  with  him 
later,  all  right! 

The  Manager. —  You  have  a  wife  and  children  at  home  — 

Master-painter  Schaedler. —  We  all  have  them,  sir,  but  when  the 
devil  gets  loose  here  — 

The  Manager. —  No!  I'll  not  back  you  up  in  any  such  madness. 

{Schaedler  shrugs  his  shoulders  and  betakes  himself  to  Wende,  who  is 
behind  the  bar.  It  is  seen  that  he  urges  him  to  advance  him  the  money, 
that  Wende  refuses  for  a  long  time,  but  finally  yields.  The  journeyman, 
in  the  meanwhile,  drinks  greedily  the  hot  grog  which  the  bar-maid  has  put 
on  the  bench  in  front  of  him.     Now  she  brings  him  food,  and  he  eats.) 

The  Manager  {raises  his  glass  and  says  to  the  lad). —  Well,  you  belated 
swallow!     Your  health! 

(Hellriegel  rises,  in  courteous  acknowledgment,  his  glass  in  his  hand, 
drinks  and  sits  down  again.) 

The  Manager. —  Your  castle  in  the  air  is  still  pretty  far  away. 

Hellriegel  {who  is  about  to  sit  down,  jumps  up  again). —  But  I  have 
the  wish  to  do  and  perseverance! 

The  Manager. —  And  you  spit  blood! 

Hellriegel. —  A  little  doesn't  matter! 

The  Manager. —  No.  If  you  only  knew  what  you  wished  to  do.  Why 
do  you  constantly  start  up  so  strangely,  just  as  if  you  had  felt  an  electric 
shock  .? 


GERHART  HAUPTMAN  M  299 

Hellriegel. —  Often  I  seem  to   be  actually  hurled  on  with  impatience. 

The  Manager. —  Like  a  child  in  a  dark  room,  eh  ?  When  dear  mamma 
on  the  other  side  of  the  door  is  lighting  the  first  candles  on  the  Christmas 
tree?     Right  now,  right  now!     But  Rome  wasn't  built  in  a  day! 

Hellriegel. —  Everything  must  be  changed. —  The  whole  world! 

The  Manager. —  And  first  of  all,  your  highness!  {To  Pippa.)  This  is 
a  stupid  fellow,  child,  one  of  the  very  clever  kind  that  we  used  to  see  only 
in  preserving  glasses!  {To  Hellriegel.)  "And  shouldst  thou  take  the 
wings  of  the  dawn — "  briefly,  your  journey  has  its  difficulties.  {To 
Pippa).  Gallop,  gallop,  over  stick  and  stone  {he  tries  to  draw  her 
down  on  his  knees,  she  resists  and  looks  at  Hellriegel.  Hellriegel  starts  up 
and  grows  red  in  the  face). 

Hellriegel. —  I  would  like  to  be  permitted  a  direct  remark! 

The  Manager. —  Has  something  new  come  into  your  head  ? 

Hellriegel. —  Not  just  at  this  minute. 

The  Manager. —  Well,  perhaps  confusion  will, 

{Michael  looks  at  the  Manager  vacantly  and  forgets  to  sit  down.) 

Wende. —  Why  not  ?  for  money  and  fair  words.  {As  the  lad  looks 
round  and  finds  no  vacant  seat.)  Sit  on  the  schnaps  keg  here,  and  count 
out  your  money  on  the  stove-bench.  If  there's  anything  else  you  want  — 
there's  room  enough  there. 

First  Woodman.—  Where  are  you  going  so  late,  journeyman  .? 

The  Manager. —  Into  the  land  where  milk  and  honey  flow! 

Hellriegel  {bowing  humbly,  first  to  the  woodman,  then  to  the  Manager). — 
I  was  anxious  to  get  over  the  mountains  into  Bohemia. 

The  Manager. —  What  is  your  trade? 

Hellriegel. —  The  art  of  glass-making. 

Second  Woodman. —  He  doesn't  seem  to  be  quite  right  in  his  head. 
To  climb  over  the  mountains  in  such  bitter  cold  weather,  and  here,  where 
there  is  no  road  and  no  foot-path  ?  Does  he  want  to  be  a  snowman  over 
there,  and  die  miserably  trying  to  be  one  ? 

Wende. —  That's  his  afi'air,  it  doesn't  concern  us! 

Third  Woodman. —  You  certainly  don't  come  from  the  mountains, 
Johnny  ?     You  can't  know  anything  of  the  winters  here  ? 

(Hellriegel  has  listened  with  modest  courtesy;  now  he  hangs  up  his 
cap  decorously,  takes  off  his  little  knapsack  and  puts  it  and  his  stick  to  one 
side.  He  then  takes  his  seat  on  the  keg,  as  directed,  shudders,  bites  his  teeth 
together  and  runs  his  fingers,  spread  apart,  through  his  hair.) 

The  Manager. —  If  your  papers  are  all  right,  why  do  you  want  to 
go  over  into  Bohemia  ?     We  make  glass  here  in  Silesia,  too. 


300  AND   PIPPA   DANCES 

HeUriegel   {jumps   up). —  I   would   like   to   learn   something  unusual! 

The  Manager. —  Pshaw,  you  don't  say  so!  And  what  might  that  be? 
To  make  clear  water  into  balls  with  just  your  hands,  perhaps  ? 

[Hellnegel  shrugs  his  shoulders.) 

The  Manager. —  Well,  we  can  do  that  here,  too,  with  snow! 

Hellries'el. —  Snow  is  not  water.     I  want  to  see  the  world. 

The  Manager. —  Aren't  you  in  the  world  here  with  us  r 

Hellriegel. —  I  am  looking  for  something. 

Tlie  Manager. —  Have  you  lost  anything  ^. 

Hellriegel. —  No!  I  think,  that  I  can  attain  to  something.  {Half 
standing  and  propping  himself  up  wearily,  he  looks  around  with  wtde-open^ 
astonished  eyes.)     I  really  don't  know  just  where  I  am  . 

The  Manager. —  Yes,  yes,  that's  the  way!  In  the  morning  brimful  of 
joy,  in  the  evening  not  a  sound  bone  in  your  body. 

Hellriegel. —  Am  I —  am  I  in  Bohemia  now,  good  landlord  '^. 

First  Woodman  {laughing). —  Are  you  .''  Does  it  seem  a  bit  Bohemian 
to  you  here  .? 

{Hellriegel  has  sunk  back  on  the  little  keg,  his  arms  are  spread  out  on 
the  stove-bench,  his  hands  under  his  forehead,  he  conceals  his  face  and  groans 
surreptitiously.) 

Third  Woodman. —  He  hasn't  been  away  from  his  mother  more  than 
three  days! 

{Pippa,  who  has  been  standing  at  the  Manager  s  table,  has  watched 
the  newcomer  continually.  She  now  goes  over  to  him,  and  sits,  apparently 
absorbed  in  thought,  on  the  bench,  not  far  from  the  place  where  his  head  restSy 
her  hands  in  her  lap,  thoughtfully  swinging  her  legs  back  and  forth,  and 
looking  down  on  him  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes.) 

{Pippa  picks  up  a  little  leather  strap  and  strikes  the  Manager  sharply 
across  his  hand.) 

The  Manager. —  Ow! 

{Pippa  laughs  and  looks  at  Hellriegel,  who,  his  eyes  fastened  on  her, 
has  forgotten  everything  around  him.  His  lips  move,  though  no  sound 
comes  from  them.) 

The  Manager  {holding  out  his  hand). —  Do  it  again,  Pippa!  {Pippa 
strikes  him.)  Ow,  but  that  was  hard!  All  good  things  go  by  threes;  now 
the  third  time!  {She  strikes  with  all  her  might,  laughing.)  There!  Now 
I  am  instructed  and  punished.  If  at  any  time  another  little  bird  falls  out 
of  the  nest,  at  least  I  know  what  I  have  to  do. 

(In  the  meantime  old  Huhn,  who  had  sat  down  again,  lies  bent  over 
he  table,  his  arms  stretched  way  out,  and  beckons  Pippa  to  him  with  his 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  301 

thick,  hairy  -finger.  As  she  does  not  come  or  pay  any  attention  to  him,  after 
he  has  watched  the  play  between  her,  the  Manager  and  Hellriegel  long  enough y 
he  rises  and  dragging  his  feet  along,  goes  up  to  the  journeyman,  stares  at  htm, 
lifts  his  long  gorilla-like  arms  which  have  been  hanging  limply  at  his  side, 
and  puts  his  outspread  hands  on  the  lad's  breast,  pushing  him  slowly  back 
onto  his  keg;  then  he  turns  round,  beckons  slyly  to  Pippa  and  lifts  his  elbows 
in  a  peculiar  fashion,  reminding  one  of  an  eagle  balancing  on  the  perch  of 
a  cage;  at  the  same  time  he  steps  out  inviting  her  to  dance  with  him.) 

The  Manager. —  What  has  gotten  into  your  head,  you  old  dromedary  ? 

The  Woodmen  {all  shout  at  the  same  time). —  Dance,  litttle  one!  Dance, 
little  one! 

The  Bar-maid  {takes  a  small  tambourine  from  the  shelves  where  the 
brandy-bottles  stand,  and  throws  it  to  Pippa,  who  catches  it). — There,  little 
chit,  don't  have  to  be  coaxed,  don't  put  on  airs;  you're  no  candy  princess! 

{Pippa  looks  first  at  the  Manager,  then  at  Hellriegel,  and  finally,  with 
a  spiteful  look  she  measures  the  giant  from  head  to  foot.  Suddenly  beginning, 
she  at  once  makes  the  little  drum  jingle  and  glides  dancing  up  to  Huhn, 
at  the  same  time  intending  to  elude  him  and  dance  past  him.  The  ocarina 
starts  up  and  the  old  man,  too,  begins  to  dance.  The  dance  consists  in  some- 
thing huge  and  awkward  trying  to  catch  something  agile  and  beautiful;  as 
if  a  bear  were  to  try  to  catch  a  butterfly  zuhich  flitted  around  him  like  a  bit  of 
opalescence.  Whenever  the  little  one  eludes  him,  she  laughs  a  bell-like  laugh. 
She  saves  herself  several  times,  whirling  round  and  round,  and  in  so  doing 
her  red-gold  hair  becomes  wrapped  around  her.  When  pursued,  the  noises 
she  makes  in  her  throat  are  just  childish  squeals,  which  sound  like  at.  The 
old  man  hops  about  grotesquely  and  ridiculously  like  a  captive  bird  of  prey. 
He  lies  in  wait  for  her,  misses  her,  and  begins  to  pant,  growing  more  and 
more  excited  and  muttering  louder  and  louder.  Pippa  dances  more  and  more 
ecstatically.  The  woodmen  have  risen.  The  card-players  have  discontinued 
their  game  and  watch  the  dance  intently.  Tagliazoni,  whom  the  proceedings 
do  not  interest,  takes  advantage  of  the  opportunity  to  scoop  in  money  and  to 
manipulate  his  cards.  Without  his  noticing  it,  he  is  carefully  watched  by 
Master-painter  Schaedler.  Now  it  seems  as  if  Pippa  could  no  longer  escape 
the  monster;  she  screams,  and  at  the  same  moment  Schaedler  seizes  Tagliazoni 
by  the  left  wrist  with  both  his  fists.) 

Master-painter  Schaedler  {above  all  the  other  noise). —  Stop! 

Tagliazoni. —  What  is  the  matter,  signore  ? 

Master-painter  Schaedler. —  Matter  here,  matter  there:  there's  cheating 
being  done!     Now  we  have  the  scoundrel  in  the  trap! 

Tagliazoni. —  He  is  mad!  Diavolo!  I  am  a  son  of  Murano.  Does 
he  know  la  casa  di  coltelli  ? 


302  AND   PIPPA   DANCES 

Master-pointer  ScluieJIer. —  Cold  hell  or  hot  hell,  neither  of  them  can 
help  you  here!  Anton,  hold  him  fast  over  there,  now  he'll  be  paid  back  all 
right!  {Master-patnter  Anton  holds  Tagliazoni*s  other  hand  firmly.)  He 
has  smuggled  in  extra  cards  and  on  these  two  here  has  put  his  mark. 

{Ei'ery  one  present,  except  Hellriegcl  and  Fippa,  who  stand  in  the 
corner  pale  and  breathing  heavily,  presses  round  the  card  table.) 

The  Manager. —  Tagliazoni,  didn't  I  tell  you  not  to  push  things  too  far! 

Tagliazoni. —  Let  me  go,  or  I  bites  you  in  the  face! 

Master-painter  Schaedler. —  Spit  and  bite  as  much  as  you  want,  but 
you'll  have  to  hand  out  our  money  again,  you  scoundrel! 

All  of  the  players. —  Yes  sir,  every  penny,  every  scrap  of  the  money! 

Tagliazoni. —  Curse  it!  I  does  nothings  of  the  sort!  Damned 
German  beasts,  you  crazy,  bad,  low-down  beasts!  What  has  I  to  do  with 
you,  }ou  Germans. 

First  Woodman. —  Knock  his  skull  in  for  him,  the  ass! 

Second  Woodman. —  Hit  him  on  the  noddle  with  the  wagon-shaft,  so 
that  he  sees  blue  sulphur  before  his  eyes!  You  can't  answer  these  Dagos 
any  other  way  in  German. 

Wende. —  Be  quiet,  you  men;  I  won't  have  this! 

Master-painter  Schaedler. —  Pull  the  cards  out  of  his  fingers,  Wende! 

Tagliazoni. —  I  murders  you  all,  every  one  of  you! 

Master-painter  Anton  (resolutely). — Good! 

Second  Woodman. —  Look  at  all  the  rings  the  blackguard  has  on  his 
hands! 

Tagliazoni. —  Padrone,  I  calls  you  to  witness!  I  am  treacherously 
attacked  here;  I  makes  no  new  contract!  I  works  no  more,  not  a  bit  more. 
I  lets  the  work  standing  as  it  is,  right  now!  Carabinieri!  Police!  Beastly 
foolishness! 

first  Woodman. —  Roar  away,  you;  there  are  no  police  here! 

Second  Woodman. —  Far  and  wide  there's  nothing  but  snow  and  pine 
trees. 

Tagliazoni. —  I  call — call  the  poHce!  Brigands!  Signore  Wende! 
Pippa!  run! 

The  Manager. —  I  advise  you  to  give  in  to  them,  man!  If  you  don't 
I  can't  answer  for  the  consequences. 

Tagliazoni. —  Ugly  beasts!     Enough  of  this! 

{Unexpectedly,  as  quick  as  lightning,  Tagliazoni  frees  himself,  draws 
out  a  dagger  and  takes  refuge  behind  a  table.  For  a  moment  his  assailants 
are  stunned.) 

Third  Woodman. —  A  knife!     Lay  him  out,  the  dog! 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  303 

All  {speaking  at  once). —  Now,  he  must  be  killed!  Now  it's  all  up  with 
him! 

The  Manager. —  Don't  you  smash  up  Tagliazoni  for  me!  I  need  him 
too  much  in  the  glass-works!  Don't  do  anything' you'll  be  sorry  for  to- 
morrow ! 

{Tagliazoni  now  recognizes  instinctively  the  frightful  danger  of  the 
moment  and  rushes  past  his  assailants  out  of  the  door.  The  card-players 
and  woodmen  plunge  after  him,  calling:  "Down,  down,  down  with  him\" 
As  they  go  out,  the  glitter  of  several  knives  is  seen.) 

The  Manager. —  I  hope  they  won't  kill  the  fellow  off  for  me,  yet  awhile! 
Wende. —  If  they  do,  they'll  shut  up  my  shop  for  me. 
The  Bar-maid  {looking   out  of  an   open   window). —  They're  running 
like  mad  over  into  the  wood;    he's  fallen!     He's  up  again!     They're  still 
after  him! 

The  Manager. —  I'll  set  the  great  Danes  loose,  and  scatter  the  gang. 
Wende. —  I   won't   be   responsible  for  anything!     I  won't   answer   for 
anything. 

The  Manager. —  What  is  that .'' 

The  Bar-maid. —  One  of  them  is  left  behind,  lying  in  the  snow.  The 
others  are  keeping  on  into  the  woods. 

{A  fearful,  marrow-penetrating  scream  is  heard,  deadened  by  distance.) 
fVende. —  Close  the  window,  the  lamp  is  going  out! 
{The  lamp  goes  out  in  fact,  the  bar-maid  slams  the  window  to.) 
The  Manager. —  That  doesn't  sound  well.     Come  with  me,  Wende! 
Wende. —  I  won't  be  responsible  for   anything!     I    won't    answer  for 
anything.      {He  and  the  Manager,  the  latter  preceding,  go  out.) 

The  Bar-mat d  {in  her  perplexity  says  roughly  to  Hellriegel). —  Get  up 
there!  Help!  Help!  Fall  to  and  help!  Everybody  ought  to  help  here! 
The  damned  card  playing!  {She  gathers  up  the  cards  from  the  table  and 
flings  them  into  the  fire.)  You  must  go,  they've  murdered  a  man!  He 
brings  bad  luck  and  won't  even  help  to  make  it  good! 

{Hellriegel  jumps  up,  and  half  of  his  own  accord,  half  pulled  and  half 
pushed  by  the  bar-maid,  he  stumbles  through  the  hall  door.  He  and  the 
bar-maid  go  out. 

{Huhn  still  stands  in  almost  the  same  position  as  he  did  ivhen  the  dance 
was  so  suddenly  i  ntcrrupted  by  the  outbreak  of  the  brawl.  His  eyes  have  folloived 
the  proceedings  watchfully,  uneasily.  Now  he  tries  to  peer  into  the  darkness, 
turning  slowly  round  and  round.  He  does  not,  however,  discover  Pip  pa, 
who,  cowering  with  horror,  is  sitting  on  the  ground,  squeezed  into  a  corner. 
He  draws  out  some  matches,  strikes  them  and  lights  the  lamp.     He  looks 


304  AND   PIPPA   DANCES 

around  again  nnJ  discovers  tlir  child.  Standing  in  the  tniddlc  of  the  rooniy 
he  beckons  to  her  with  horrible  friendliness.  Pippa  looks  at  linn  dumbly^ 
like  a  bird  that  has  fallen  out  of  the  nest  and  been  taken  captive.  As  he  comes 
toward  hery  she  whimpers  softly.  The  little  window  is  pushed  open  from 
outside  and  the  Managers  voice  calls  in.) 

The  Manager's  voice. —  Pippa,  Pippa!  She  cannot  stay  here.  I  will 
take  her  with  me. 

{The  Manager  has  hardly  left  the  window  when  Huhn  plunges  toward 
the  child,  wlio  has  jumped  up,  catches  her,  and  lifts  her  up  in  his  arms; 
whereupon  Pippa  gives  a  short,  sighing  little  cry  and  faints,  and  Huhn 
says  at  the  same  time.) 

Huhn. —  After  all,  he  didn't  get  you! 

{With  this  he  hurries  out  of  the  door.) 

The  Manager  s  voice  {again  at  the  window). —  Pippa,  Pippa,  are  you 
still  in  there  ^     Don't  be  afraid,  no  one  shall  touch  a  hair  of  your  head! 

{The  bar-maid  comes  back.) 

The  Bar-maid. —  Not  a  soul  here  ?  Not  a  soul  comes  back,  and  out 
there  lies  a  man  bleeding  to  death. 

ACT  II 

The  interior  of  a  solitary  hut  in  the  mountains.  The  large,  low  room 
is  neglected  to  a  degree  not  to  be  surpassed.  The  ceiling  is  black  from  smoke 
and  age.  One  beam  is  broken,  the  rest  are  bent,  and  where  it  has  been  absolutely 
necessary  they  have  been  propped  up  with  unhewn  tree  trunks.  Little  boards 
have  been  pushed  under  these.  The  floor  is  of  clay,  worn  into  ridges  and 
hollows,  only  around  the  broken-down  stove  is  it  paved  with  bricks.  A 
blackened  and  charred  bench  runs  along  the  wall  under  the  three  small  quad- 
rangular window  openings,  of  which  two  are  filled  up  with  straw,  moss, 
leaves  and  boards;  the  third  contains  a  window  with  three  dirty  panes,  and 
instead  of  the  fourth,  boards  and  moss  again.  By  the  same  wall,  in  the 
corner  near  the  stove,  but  farther  forward,  the  mended  table.  In  the  back 
wall,  a  door.  Through  the  door  can  be  seen  the  dark  hallway  with  beams 
propped  up  like  those  in  the  room,  and  a  slanting,  ladder-like  stairway  leading 
to  the  garret. 

A  low  board  partition  enclosing  a  space  filled  with  birch,  beech  and  oak 
leaves  on  which  lie  a  few  rags  of  clothing  and  bed-covers  is  old  Huhn's 
resting  place  for  the  night,  for  the  hut  belongs  to  him.  On  the  wall  hang 
an  old  firearm,  a  ragged  slouch  hat,  pieces  of  clothing  and  several  little  pictures 
cut  from  periodicals.  A  great  many  leaves  are  lying  on  the  floor.  In  the 
corner  is  a  pile  of  potatoes;  bunches  of  onions  and  dried  mushrooms  hang 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  305 

from  the  ceiling.  One  single  ray  of  bright  light  from  the  clear  moonlit  night 
without  penetrates  through  the  window. 

Suddenly  it  grows  bright  in  the  hallway.  Loud  sneezing  and  heavy 
breathing  are  heard.  Immediately  after  old  Huhn  is  seen,  still  carrying 
Pippa  in  his  arms.  He  enters  the  room  and  lays  Pippa  down  on  the  bed 
of  leaves,  covering  her  with  the  rags  that  are  lying  there.  Then  he  brings 
forth  from  a  corner  an  old  stand  for  burning  pine  chips  in,  he  puts  the  chips 
in  and  lights  them;  he  is  very  much  excited  and  while  doing  this  stares  in 
the  direction  of  the  child.  The  first  blasts  of  an  approaching  storm  are 
heard.  Snow  zvhirls  through  the  hallway.  Huhn  no%v  takes  a  bottle  from 
a  shelf  and  pours  some  brandy  down  Pippa* s  throat.  She  breathes  heavily, 
he  covers  her  more  carefully,  hurries  over  to  the  stove  and  with  the  heaps 
of  brushwood  lying  around,  he  builds  a  fire. 

Huhn  {rises  suddenly,  listens  at  the  door,  and  calls  with  insane  haste 
and  secrecy). —  Come  down,  come  down,  old  Jacob!  —  Old  Jacob,  I  have 
brought  something  with  me  for  you.  {He  listens  for  the  answer  and  laughs 
to  himself.) 

Pippa  {moans,  revived  by  the  stimulant;  suddenly  she  draws  herself 
up  into  a  sitting  posture,  looks  around  her  in  horror,  presses  her  hands  in 
front  of  her  eyes,  takes  them  away  again,  moans,  jumps  up  and  like  a  frightened 
bird  runs  blindly  against  the  wall  of  the  room). —  Mrs.  Wende,  Mrs.  Wende, 
where  can  I  be  ^  {Clawing  at  the  wall  in  her  horror,  she  looks  behind  her, 
sees  Huhn,  and  in  a  new  attack  of  despairing  terror,  she  runs  blindly,  now 
here,  now  there,  against  the  walls).  I  am  smothering!  Help  me!  Don't 
bury  me!  Father!  Padrone!  Oh  dear,  oh  dear!  Help!  Mrs.  Wende,  I 
am  dreaming! 

Huhn  {trots  up  to  her,  and  immediately  she  reaches  out  her  hands  to 
ward  him  of]  in  speechless  horror). — Be  still,  be  still!  Old  Huhn  won't  do 
anything  to  you!  —  And  as  far  as  that  is  concerned,  old  Jacob  is  kindly 
in  his  way,  too.  {As  Pippa,  who  is  completely  paralyzed,  does  not  change 
her  defensive  position,  he  takes  a  few  uncertain  steps  toward  her,  but  suddenly 
stands  still  again,  deterred  by  her  expression  of  unconscious  horror). —  O, 
this  won't  do!  —  Well  ?  —  Say  something!  — Don't  bruise  yourself  so  against 
the  walls!  —  It  is  fine  in  here  with  me;  outside  death  lurks!  {He  stares 
at  her  for  awhile  searchingly  and  expectantly,  suddenly  a  thought  occurs  to 
him.)  Wait  a  minute!  —  Jacob,  bring  down  the  goat!  —  Jacob — I — 
Goats'  milk  warms!  Goats'  milk  will  be  good.  {He  imitates  the  loud  and 
low  bleating  of  a  sleepy  flock  of  goats  and  sheep  in  the  stables.)  Ba,  baa, 
ba!  —  Listen,  they  are  coming  down  the  steps.      Jacob,  Jacob,  bring  them  in! 

{Pippa's  glance  has  fallen  on  the  door  and  recognized  it;  she  starts  m 


3o6  AND   PIPPA   DANCES 

art  J  rushes  toward  it  instinctively,  in  order  to  slip  away.  Hiihn  steps 
in  her  zcay.) 

Huhn. —  I  will  not  catch  you!  I  will  not  touch  you,  little  girl!  Yet 
with  nie  vou  must  —  with  me  you  must  remain. 

Pippa. —  Mrs.  Wende!  Mrs.  Wende!  {She  stands  still  and  buries 
her  face  in  her  hands.) 

Huhn. —  Don't  be  afraid!  —  Something  has  been  —  and  something 
will  be!  —  Snares  are  frequently  set  in  spring — and  the  yellow-hammers 
are  not  caught  until  winter!  {He  takes  a  deep  draught  from  the  brandy 
bottle.) 

{At  this  moment,  a  goat  sticks  its  head  in  at  the  door.) 

Huhn. —  Wait  a  minute,  Jacob,  let  Liesla  stand  outside  there!  She 
will  give  me  a  drop  of  milk,  she  will!  {He  picks  up  a  little  stool,  trots  into 
the  halkvay  and  milks  the  goat,  placing  himself  so  that  he  blocks  up  the 
doonvay  at  the  same  time.  In  the  meantime,  Pippa  seems  to  have  grown 
a  little  more  composed.  In  her  crying  and  moaning  there  ts  a  note  of  helpless 
resignation;  she  feels  the  chill  again  and  is  drawn  toward  the  bright  spot 
on  the  wall,  the  reflection  of  the  fire  in  the  stove;  there  she  seems  to  thaw  out 
so  as  to  be  able  to  think,  and  kneeling  on  the  ground,  she  stares  into  the  crackling 
blaze.) 

Pippa. —  O,  santa  Maria,  madre  di  dio!  O,  madre  Maria!  O,  santa 
Anna!     O,  mia  santa  madre  Maria! 

{Old  Huhn  finishes  his  milking  and  enters  the  room  again.  Pippa's 
distress  and  fear  rise  immediately,  but  he  goes  toward  her,  puts  the  little  jug 
of  milk  down  at  some  distance  from  her  and  moves  back  again.) 

Huhn. —  Drink  the  goats  milk,  you  little  gold  darling,  you! 

{Pippa  looks  at  Huhn  doubtfully  and  summons  up  sufficient  courage 
to  drink  with  eager  haste  from  the  little  jug  that  has  been  set  before  her.) 

Huhn. —  That's  the  way  babies,  too,  suck  in  their  milk! 

Old  Huhn  {slapping  his  knees  with  both  hands  breaks  out  into  a 
hoarse,  triumphant  laughter). —  Now  she  has  drunk  her  fill,  now  her  strength 
will  come  back  to  her!  {At  this,  he  takes  himself  off,  pulls  forth  a  little 
sack  from  behind  the  stove,  shakes  out  some  crusts  of  bread  onto  the  table, 
draws  from  the  oven  a  part  of  a  broken  iron  pot  in  which  are  potatoes,  and 
puts  these  with  the  crusts;  drinks,  puts  the  brandy  bottle  also  on  the  table 
and  sits  doivn  himself  to  his  meal  on  the  bench  behind  the  table.  A  fresh 
blast  of  wind  comes  against  the  house  with  great  force:  with  wild  defiance, 
Huhn  answers  it,  as  it  were.)  Oh,  very  well,  you  can  come,  keep  right  on 
coming,  for  all  I  care;  just  try,  try  and  see  whether  you  can  get  her  away 
from  here! 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  307 

Pippa. —  Huhn,  old  Huhn,  let  me  go  away!  I  know  you,  I'm  sure 
it's  you:  you  are  father  Huhn!  What  has  happened?  Why  am  I  here 
with  you  ? 

Huhn. —  Because  that's  the  way  things  happen  in  this  world,  some- 
times. 

Pippa. —  What  happens  this  way  ?     Whac  do  you  mean  ? 

Huhn. —  What  a  man  hasn't,  he  has  to  get  for  himself! 

Pippa. —  What  do  you  mean  ?     I  don't  understand  you! 

Huhn. —  Don't  touch  me,  or  my  heart  will  beat  itself  out  of  my 
body!  {He  grows  pale,  trembles,  breathes  hard  and  moves  away  because 
Pippa  touches  his  hand  with  her  lips.) 

Pippa  {starts  hack,  runs  away  and  throws  herself  against  the  closed 
^oor).— Help!     Help! 

Huhn. —  Useless!  No  one  can  get  through  there!  You  are  to  stay 
with  me,  and  it's  fine  here,  if  you  lived  with  the  emperor  —  you  wouldn't 
find  things  any  finer!     And  you  must  listen  to  me,  you  must  be  obedient. 

Pippa. —  Father  Huhn,  Father  Huhn,  you  won't  do  anything  to  me, 
will  you  ^. 

Huhn  {shaking  his  head  decidedly). —  And  no  one  else  shall  touch 
a  hair  of  your  head!  No  father  and  no  manager.  You  are  safe  here  and 
you  are  mine. 

Pippa. —  Am  I  to  be  buried  here,  forever  .? 

Huhn. —  A  caterpillar,  a  chrysalis,  a  butterfly!  Wait  awhile:  you 
will  soon  open  this  grave  for  us.  Listen,  listen,  the  devil  is  coming!  Stoop 
down!  The  devil  is  coming  down  from  the  mountains!  You  hear  how 
the  little  children  are  crying  out  there,  now.  They  are  standing  naked 
on  the  cold  stones  in  the  hallway  and  wailing.  They  are  dead!  Because 
they  are  dead,  they  are  frightened.  Stoop  down,  put  your  little  hood  on; 
or  he  will  seize  you  by  the  hair  with  his  fist  and  (God  have  mercy  on  you) 
out  into  the  whirlwind  you  will  have  to  go.  Come  here,  I'll  hide  you! 
I'll  wrap  you  up!  Just  listen,  how  the  wind  howls  and  spits  and  miaus; 
down  it  comes  from  the  roof  with  the  few  wisps  of  straw  there!  For  all 
I  care,  keep  on  pulling  until  you  have  everything  off^  the  roof. —  Now, 
he  has  gone  by!  That  was  a  ghost,  wasn't  it  ^  I  am  a  ghost  and  you  are 
a  ghost,  all  the  world  are  ghosts  and  nothing  but  ghosts!  But  sometime, 
perhaps,  it  will  be  different. 

{A  wild  wave  of  storm  has  raged  by.  Again  Pippa' s  face  shows  a 
horror  that  almost  robs  her  of  consciousness.  Huhn  still  stands  m  the  middle 
of  the  room  even  m  the  deep  and  uncanny  silence  that  follows.  And  now 
a  voice  IS  heard  outside,  and  a  distinct  knocking,  at  first  on  one  of  the  nailed-up 


J 


08  AND   PIPPA   DANCES 


li/nJou'X,  later  on  one  of  the  glass  panes  which  is  darkened  by  a  shadow. 
Huhn  starts  convulsively  and  stares  at  the  new  apparition.) 

A  voice  {from  without,  muffled). —  Halloo,  ho  there!  Confound  it, 
that  was  an  infernal  morning  breeze!  wasn't  it?  Does  anyone  live  here? 
Mv  ver)-  best  God  bless  you!  Do  me  no  harm,  and  I'll  do  you  none!  Just 
rrive  me  some  hot  coffee  and  let  me  sit  by  your  stove-door  until  daylight! 
\'ours  most  humbly,  a  frozen  journeyman! 

Huhn  {rigid  xvith  rage).—  Who  wants  anything  here  ?  Who's  hanging 
around  old  Huhn's  little  house  ?  What  man  ?  What  spirit  ?  I'll  help 
you  to  get  away  from  here.      {He  seizes  a  heavy  club  and  plunges  out  of 

the  door.) 

{With  a  sigh  Pip  pa  closes  her  eyes.  Now  it  seems  as  if  something 
like  a  ringing  current  of  air  breathed  through  the  dark  room.  Then,  while 
the  musicy  ever  increasing  in  volume,  ebbs  and  flows,  Michael  Hellriegel 
appears  in  the  doorway.  Nervously  and  cautiously  he  moves  into  the  circle 
of  light  made  by  the  burning  chips,  his  eyes  searching  the  darkness  distrust- 
fully.) 

Hellriegel. —  This  is  certainly  a  rather  harmonious  murderers'  den! 
Hello,  is  anybody  at  home  ?  It  must  be  a  meal-worm  that's  playing  the 
harmonica  ?  Hello,  is  anyone  at  home  ?  {He  sneezes.)  That  seems 
to  be  musical  hellebore.  {Pippa  sneezes  too.)  Was  that  I  or  was  it  some- 
one else  ? 

Pippa  {half  asleep).— Someone  must  be  —  playing  the  harmonica  — 

here  ?  .        . 

Hellriegel  {listening,  without  seeing  Pippa).— You  ^re  quite  right, 
it  is  a  meal-worm  in  my  opinion!  "Go  to  sleep,  dear  little  babe;  what 
is  rustling  in  the  straw  ?"  If  a  rat  gnaws  at  night,  you  think  it  is  a  saw-mill, 
and  if  a  little  draught  blows  through  a  crack  in  the  door  and  rubs  two 
dried  beech  leaves  together,  you  think  at  once  that  you  hear  a  beautiful 
maiden  whispering  softly  or  sighing  for  her  deliverer!  Michael  Hellriegel, 
you  are  very  clever!  You  hear  the  grass  growing  even  in  winter!  But, 
I  tell  you,  you  better  take  care  of  the  things  in  your  head;  your  mother 
is  right:  don't  let  your  fancy  run  over  like  a  milk  pan!  Don't  believe 
firmly  and  absolutely  in  everything  that  is  not  true,  and  don't  run  a  hundred 
miles  and  more  after  a  flying  cobweb!  Good  evening!  My  name  is 
Michael  Lebrecht  Hellriegel!  {He  listens  awhile,  there  is  no  answer.) 
I  begin  to  be  surprised  that  nobody  answers  me,  because  there  is  a  first- 
class  fire  in  the  stove  —  and  because  one  is  certainly  led  to  expect  some- 
thing decidedly  unusual  here  — the  place  has  that  look.  If,  for  example,  I 
should  see  a  parrot  here,  sitting  on  a  pot  on  the  stove,  stirring  sausage  broth 


GERHART   HAUPTMANN  309 

with  a  cooking  spoon,  and  he  should  scream  at  me:  rascal,  pickpocket, 
horse-thief;  that  would  really  be  the  least  that  I  should  expect.  I  waive 
any  claim  to  a  man-eater;  or  if  I  have  one,  then  there  must  be  an  enchanted 
princess  too,  whom  an  inhuman  and  accursed  monster  keeps  in  a  cage: 
the  pretty  httle  dancing  girl,  for  instance, —  Hold,  something  clever  has 
just  occurred  to  me:  I  bought  an  ocarina!  I  bought  the  ocarina  of  the 
scurv}^  old  fellow  at  the  tavern  who  played  for  the  dancing,  paid  for  it  with 
my  last  dollar  —  which  was  also  very  clever!  Why  do  I  want  it  —  I 
don't  really  know,  myself!  Perhaps  because  the  name  sounds  so  queer, 
or  I  imagine  that  the  little  red-haired  nixie  is  inside  of  it  and  wherever 
possible,  she  slips  out  and  dances  when  anyone  plays  on  it  ?  I  am  going 
to  make  the  experiment,  right  now. 

[Michael  Hellriegel  puts  the  ocarina  to  his  mouth,  looks  round  inquiringly 
and  plays.  At  the  first  notes,  Pippa  rises,  her  eyes  closed,  trips  into  the 
center  of  the  room  and  assumes  a  dancing  pose.) 

Pippa. —  Yes,  father,  I  am  coming!     Here  I  am! 

{Michael  Hellriegel  takes  the  ocarina  from  his  mouth,  stares  at  her  with 
open  mouth,  dumbfounded  with  surprise.) 

Hellriegel. —  There,  Michael,  that's  what  you  get  out  of  this  business! 
Now  you  are  stark  mad! 

Pippa  {opens  her   eyes,  as  if  awakening). —  Is  there    someone    here  .? 

Hellriegel. —  No,  that  is  nobody  but  me,  if  you  will  permit  me. 

Pippa. —  Who  is  talking  then  .''     And  where  am  I  ? 

Hellriegel. —  In  my  tired  brain,  tired  from  a  sleepless  night! 

Pippa  {remembers  having  seen  Hellriegel  in  the  tavern  in  the  woods, 
and  flies  into  his  arms). —  Help  me!     Help  me!     Save  me! 

{Hellriegel  stares  down  at  the  magnificent  Titian-red  hair  of  the  little 
head  that  has  hidden  itself  on  his  shoulder.  He  does  not  move  his  arms 
as  Pippa  holds  hers  clasped  tightly  around  him.) 

Hellriegel. —  If  now,  I — if,  now,  I  —  for  instance:  I  suppose,  if  I 
had  my  arms  free,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  mother  doesn't  like  to  see 
me  do  it,  I  should  write  a  short  memorandum  in  my  little  book;  it  is  even 
possible  it  might  be  in  verse.  But  I  can  not  get  my  hands  free!  My 
imagination  has  bound  me  so  tightly!  It  has  bound  me  —  woe  betide  me! — 
so  tightly  and  so  confoundedly  queerly  that  my  heart  thumps  in  my  throat 
and  makes  a  bunch  of  red  hair  in  front  of  me! 

Pippa. —  Help  me!  Help  me!  Rescue  me!  Save  me  from  that  old 
monster,  that  awful  creature! 

Hellriegel. —  What  may  your  name  be  .? 

Pippa.—  Pippa! 


310  AND   PIPPA  DANCES 

Htllriegt-l. —  Right,  of  course!  1  heard  the  fellow  with  the  riding- 
boots  call  you  that.  Then  the  fellow  went  away;  he  made  himself  scarce. 
When  thev  massacred  the  Dago  dog,  he  preferred  to  be  somewhere  else. 
And  you  were  gone,  too,  when  I  —  that  is  to  say,  when  we  came  back 
with  the  dying  Italian;  at  least,  I  didn't  find  you  downstairs  and  I  didn't 
go  up  into  his  sleeping  quarters  with  them.  I  would  have  liked  to  ask 
him  about  }ou,  but  he  had  forgotten  his  Italian!  — 

Pippa. —  Come  away,  come  away  from  here!     Oh,  don't  leave  me! 

HeUrtegcl. —  No!  You  may  be  quite  at  ease  as  to  that,  we  two  will 
never  leave  each  other  again.  He  who  once  has  a  bird  as  I  have,  doesn't 
readily  let  it  fly  awav  again.  So,  Pippa,  sit  down,  compose  yourself,  and 
we  will  consider  the  situation  seriously  for  the  moment,  as  if  there  were  no 
screws  loose! 

(He  frees  himself  gently;  with  knightly  grace  and  modesty  he  takes 
Pippa's  little  finger  between  his  first  finger  and  thumb  and  leads  her  into 
the  circle  of  light  cast  by  the  stove  to  a  little  stool  on  which  she  seats  herself.) 

Hellriegel  (standing  before  Pippa  making  fantastic  gesticulations).  — 
So  a  dragon  kidnapped  you  —  I  thought  so,  right  away,  up  there  in  the 
tavern  —  spirited  you  away  from  the  Dago  magician;  and  because  I  am 
a  travelling  artist,  I  was  at  once  sure  that  I  was  to  rescue  you;  and  forth- 
with I  too  ran  out  into  the  open,  wholly  without  end  or  aim. 

Pippa. —  Where  did  you  come  from  ^     Who  are  you  ^ 

Hellriegel. —  A  son  of  the  widow  Hellriegel,  the  fruit-woman. 

Pippa. —  And  where  do  you  come  from  .? 

Hellriegel. —  Out  of  our  Lord's  great  sausage  boiler! 

Pippa  (laughs  heartily). —  But  you  talk  so  strangely! 

Hellriegel. —  I  have  always  distinguished  myself  in  that  way. 

Pippa. —  But  see  here,  I  am  certainly  made  of  flesh  and  blood!  and  that 
crazy  old  Huhn  is  an  old,  discharged  glass-blower,  nothing  more.  His 
goiter  and  his  balloon  cheeks  probably  come  from  the  blowing;  and  there 
are  no  fiery  dragons  any  more. 

Hellriegel. —  You  don't  say  so!     Why  not  .f* 

Pippa. —  Hurry!  Bring  me  back  to  Mother  Wende!  Come  along 
with  me;  I  know  the  way  to  the  Redwater  tavern.  I'll  guide  you!  We 
won't  lose  our  way!  (As  Hellriegel  shakes  his  head  no.)  Or,  are  you  going 
to  leave  me  alone  again  .'' 

Hellriegel  (denying  this  vigorously). —  I  will  not  sell  my  ocarina! 

Pippa  (laughs,  pouts,  presses  closely  and  anxiously  up  to  him). —  What 
is  this  about  the  ocarina  ^  Why  won't  you  say  anything  sensible  ?  You 
talk  nonsense  all  the  time!     Really,  you  are  so  stupid,  Signore  Hellriegel! 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  311 

{Kissing  him  fondly,  half  weeping.)     I  don't  understand  you  at  all,  you 
are  so  stupid! 

Hellriegel. —  Wait  a  minute!  I  begin  to  see  more  clearly,  now! 
{He  takes  her  head  in  his  hands,  looks  intently  into  her  eyes,  and  with 
calm  decision,  presses  his  lips  long  and  passionately  against  hers). — 
Michael  does  not  let  himself  be  made  a  fool  of! 

{fVithout  separating,  they  look  at  each  other  with  embarrassment  and 
something  of  uncertainty.) 

Hellriegel. —  Something  is  happening  inside  of  me,  little  Pippa,  a 
strange  change! 

Pippa. —  Oh,  good  — 

Hellriegel  {finishing). —  Michael. 

Pippa. —  Michael,  what  are  you  doing  ? 

Hellriegel. —  I  am  quite  perplexed,  myself!  Please  excuse  me  from 
the  answer!     Aren't  you  angry  with  me  for  doing  it? 

Pippa. —  No. 

Hellriegel. —  Perhaps  we  could  do  it  again  then,  right  now  ? 

Pippa. —  Why  should  we  ? 

Hellriegel. —  Because  it  is  so  simple!  It  is  so  simple  and  is  so  mad 
and  so  —  so  altogether  lovely,  it  is  enough  to  drive  one  crazy. 

Pippa. —  I  think,  good  Michael,  you  are  that  already. 

Hellriegel  {scratching  himself  behind  the  ear). —  If  I  could  just  be  sure 
of  that!  I  say  there  is  nothing  sure  in  this  world!  Do  you  know,  another 
idea  has  just  occurred  to  me!  Let  us  take  plenty  of  time!  We'll  go  to 
the  bottom  of  the  matter,  this  time!  Come,  sit  down  here,  here  near  me. 
So,  first  of  all,  this  is  a  hand  here!  Permit  me,  we  will  come  at  once  to 
the  main  thing:  whether  there  is  a  main-spring  in  the  clock-works.  {He 
puts  his  ear  to  her  chest,  like  a  physician.)  You  are  certainly  alive,  you 
certainly  have  a  heart,  Pippa! 

Pippa. —  But,  Michael,  did  you  doubt  that  ^.  — 

Hellriegel. —  No,  Pippa!  —  But  if  you  are  alive  —  then  I  must  get 
my  breath.      {Actually  struggling  for  breath,  he  steps  back  from  her.) 

Pippa. —  Michael,  indeed  we  haven't  any  time!  Listen  to  that  heavy 
breathing  outside,  and  how  someone  is  stamping  round  and  round  the  house! 
He  has  passed  the  window  three  times,  now.  He  will  strike  you  down  dead, 
if  he  finds  us  here,  Michael.     Look,  he  is  staring  in  here  again! 

Hellriegel. —  O  you  poor  little  princess  "  I-am-afraid"!  Ah,  you 
don't  yet  know  my  mother's  son!  Don't  let  that  old  gorilla  bother  you! 
If  you  wish,  a  boot  shall  fly  at  his  head!  — 

Pippa.— No,  Michael,  don't  do  that,  Michael! 


312  AND   PIPPA   DANCES 

Hfllrifgt'l. —  Certainly!  — Or  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  we  will  hegin 
the  new  lite  some  other  way.  First  of  all,  we  will  establish  ourselves  calmly 
and  sensibly  in  the  world.  We  will  cleave  to  reality,  Pippa,  won't  we  f 
You  to  me  and  I  to  you!  But  no:  I  dare  hardly  say  that  aloud  because 
you  are  like  a  blossom  on  a  pliant  stem,  so  fragrant  and  so  fragile!  Enough 
child,  no  day-dreaming!  [Taki^s  off  his  knapsack  and  unbuckles  it.) 
Here  in  my  knapsack  is  a  box.  Now,  pay  attention;  Michael  Hellriegel 
brought  with  him  into  the  world  a  real  inheritance  of  mother  wit,  for  use 
in  all  cases.  (//<■  lioUs  out  a  very  small  box.)  Practical!  In  here  are 
three  practical  things:  first  of  all,  this  is  an  enchanted  tooth-pick,  you 
see:  fashioned  like  a  sword;  with  it  you  can  stab  to  death  giants  and 
dragons!  Here,  in  this  little  flask,  I  have  an  elixir,  and  with  this,  we'll 
pay  off  the  filthy  fellow;  it  is  a  so-called  sleeping  potion  and  is  indispen- 
sable tor  use  against  giants  and  magicians!  You  don't  recognize  what 
this  little  ball  of  yarn  here  is,  but  if  you  tie  one  end  fast  here,  the  little  roll 
will  immediately  tumble  down  in  front  of  you,  and  skip  along  ahead  of  you, 
like  a  little  white  mouse,  and  if  you  will  only  follow  the  yarn  on  and  on, 
you  will  come  straight  into  the  promised  land.  One  more  thing,  here 
is  a  little  doll's  table;  but  that  isn't  of  much  consequence,  Pippa:  it  is  just 
a  "Little  table  —  set  —  thyself."  Am  I  not  a  clever  fellow.?  You  have 
confidence  in  me  now,  haven't  you  ? 

Pippa Michael,  I  don't  see  any  of  those  things! 

Hellriegel. —  Just  wait,  I  shall  have  to  open  your  eyes  for  you  before 
you  can! 

Pippa. —  I  beUeve  it  all!     Hide  yourself,  the  old  man  is  coming! 

Hellriegel. —  Tell  me,  Pippa,  where  were  you  born  ? 

Pippa. —  I  believe,  in  a  city  by  the  water. 

Hellriegel. —  You  see,  I  thought  so  right  away!  Was  it  as  windy 
there  as  here  .?     And  were  there  generally  clouds  in  the  sky  there  too .? 

Pippa. —  I  have  never  seen  any  there,  Michael,  and  day  after  day, 
the  dear  sun  shone! 

Hellriegel. —  So !  That's  the  kind  of  person  you  are !  Do  you  think  my 
mother  would  believe  that  ^  —  Now,  tell  me,  just  once,  do  you  believe  in  me  ? 

Pippa. —  Ten  thousand  times,  Michael,  in  all  things. 

Hellriegel. —  Beautiful!  Then  we  will  cross  the  mountains  —  and 
of  course  that's  only  a  little  thing  to  do!  I  know  every  highway  and  byway 
here  —  and  on  the  other  side  spring  will  have  begun! 

Pippa. —  O,  no,  no,  no!  I  can  not  go  with  you!  My  father  is  very 
wicked,  he  will  shut  me  up  again  for  three  days,  and  give  me  nothing  but 
water  and  bread  to  eat! 


GERHART   HAUPTMANN  313 

Hellriegel. —  Well,  Pippa,  your  father  is  very  kind  now;  his  manner 
is  very  quiet  now;  he  is  astonishingly  meek!  I  marvelled  that  he  was 
so  patient,  quite  cool-headed,  not  at  all  like  an  Italian.  Soft!  He  will 
never  again  hurt  a  fly!  Do  you  understand  just  what  it  is  I  would  say, 
little  Pippa!  Your  father  has  played  and  won  so  long,  and  now  at  last, 
he  has  lost.  After  all,  everybody  loses  in  the  end,  Pippa!  That  is,  so 
to  speak  —  your  father  is  dead. 

Pippa  {more  laughing  than  weepings  flings  her  arms  around  Michael 
Hellriegel' s  neck). —  Dear  me!  Then  I  have  nobody  left  to  me  in  the 
world,  nobody  but  you! 

Hellriegel. —  And  that  is  quite  enough,  Pippa!     I  sell  myself  to  you 
skin  and  bones,  from  the  crown  of  my  head  to  the  soles  of  my  feet,  just 
as  I  am!  —  And  huzza!     Huzza!     Now  we  shall  wander  as  we  please. 
Pippa. —  You  will  take  me  with  you,  you  will  not  leave  me  ? 
Hellriegel. —  I,  leave  you  ?     I,  not  take    you  with   me  ?      And  now, 
I  will  guide  you;  now,  rely  on  me!     You  shall  not  hit  your  foot  against 
a  stone!     Hear,  how  the  glass  rings  on  the  mountain  pines!     Do  you  hear  ? 
The  long  cones  jingle.     It  is  only  a  little  while  before  daylight  but  bitter 
cold.     I  will  wrap  you  up,  I  will  carry  you;  we  will  warm  each  other, 
won't  we.?     And  you'll  be  surprised  at  how  fast  we  get  away!     Already 
a  litttle  bit  of  light  is  creeping  in  here!     Look  at  the  tips  of  my  fingers; 
there  is  even  now  a  bit  of  sunlight  on  them,     A  bit  that  can  be  eaten,  it 
must  be  licked  off!     You  can't  forego  that  and   keep  hot  blood!      Do  you, 
too,  hear  birds  singing,  Pippa  ? 
Pippa. —  Yes,  Michael. 

Hellriegel. —  Peep,  peep!  That  may  be  a  mouse,  a  yellow  hammer  or 
a  door  hinge  —  it  doesn't  make  any  difference  which;  all  notice  something! 
The  old  house  creaks  through  and  through!  Many  times  my  spirit  becomes 
absolutely  exalted  to  the  skies  when  the  tremendous  event  occurs  and 
the  ocean  of  light  pours  forth  from  the  hot,  golden  pitcher!  — 
Pippa. —  Don't  you  hear  voices  calling,  Michael  ^. 
Hellriegel. —  No,  I  hear  only  one  voice;  that  sounds  like  a  steer 
bellowing  in  the  pasture! 

Pippa.— It's  old  Huhn!     It's  terrible! 
Hellriegel. —  But  what  he's  calling  is  very  strange! 
Pippa. —  There  he  stands,  Michael,  don't  you  see  him  .? 
Hellriegel  (standing  with  Pippa  at  the  window). —  Yes,   it   seems  to 
be  some  frightful  wood  god  —  his  beard  and  his  eyelashes  full  of  icicles, 
his  outspread   hands  extended    upwards;    he  stands   there   and   does   not 
move,  his  closed  eyes  turned  toward  the  East! 


314  AND   PIPPA   DANCES 

Pippa. —  Now  the  first  rays  of  the  morning  shine  on  him! 

Hi'llriegel. —  And  again  he  cries  out! 

Pippa. —  Do  you  understand  what  he  is  calHng  ? 

Hellricgcl. —  It  sounded  Hke  —  it  sounds  hke  —  like  —  a  proclamation. 

[A  peculiar  call  in  slow  and  powerful  crescendo  becomes  audible;  it  is 
uttered  by  old  Huhn,  and  sounds  like  jumalai.) 

Hellriegel. —  It  sounds  to  me  like  ju  — jumalai. 

Pippa. —  jumalai  ?     What  does  that  mean  .'' 

Hellriegel. —  I  don't  know,  little  Pippa,  just  exactly  what.  But  it 
seems  to  me  it  means:  Joy  for  all! 

{The  call,  'Jumalai y  is  repeated  louder,  while  the  room  grows  lighter.) 

Pippa. —  Are  you  weeping,  Michael  ? 

Hellriegel. —  Come,  little  Pippa,  you  misunderstand! 

{Closely  intertivined,  Pippa  and  Hellriegel  move  out  of  the  door.  The 
curtain  falls,  and  the  music,  which  began  with  the  light  on  HellriegeVs  finger, 
swells  forth  and  depicts  as  it  increases  the  mighty  rising  of  the  winter  sun.) 

ACT  III 

The  interior  of  a  snow-bound  cabin  on  the  crest  of  the  mountains.  A 
large,  low,  comfortable  room  enclosed  in  timbered  walls  and  with  a  timbered 
ceiling  is  seen.  There  are  three  small,  well  protected  double  windows  in 
the  left  wall;  under  them  runs  a  bench  which  is  fastened  to  the  wall.  The 
back  wall  is  broken  by  a  little  door  which  leads  into  the  hallway.  Gayly 
painted  peasant  cupboards  form  a  comfortable-looking  corner,  left.  Clean, 
carefully  arranged  cooking  utensils  and  bright-colored  plates  adorn  the  upper, 
open  half  of  one  of  the  cupboards.  To  the  right  of  the  door  is  the  usual  large 
stove  of  glazed  tiles  with  its  bench.  The  fire  crackles  cheerily  in  it.  The 
stove-bench  meets  the  bench  fastened  to  the  right  wall.  In  the  corner  thus 
formed  stands  a  large,  massive,  brown  peasant's  table;  over  it  hangs  a  lamp; 
gayly  painted  wooden  chairs  surround  it.  The  brass  pendulum  of  a  large. 
Black-forest  clock  near  the  door  swings  slowly.  Thus  far  the  room  shows 
a  character  peculiar  to  the  dwellings  of  the  mountaineers  of  the  better  class. 
Unusual,  IS  a  table  in  the  foreground,  left,  with  a  reading  desk,  on  which 
is  an  old  book,  open;  the  table  is  covered  with  all  sorts  of  other  books  and 
strange  objects,  such  as  a  lamp  between  cobblers^  magnifying  globes,  a  glass- 
blower  s  lamp  with  glass  tubes,  old  medicine  bottles,  a  stuffed  king-fisher, 
etc.;  beside  these,  against  the  walls,  are  a  number  of  objects  that  have  been 
unearthed:  stone  knives,  hammers  and  spear-heads,  belonging  to  the  so- 
called  stone  age;  and  a  collection  of  common  hammers  for  geological  purposes. 
More  unusual  still  is  a  delicately  made  model  of  a  Venetian  gondola,  which 


GERHART   HAUPTMANN  315 

rests  on  a  stand  in  front  of  the  reading  desk,  as  well  as  other  models  of  ancient, 
mediaeval  and  modern  vessels  for  river  and  ocean  navigation,  which  hang 
from  the  ceiling, —  and  a  large  telescope  with  its  stand.  On  the  deal  floor 
lie  splendid  oriental  carpets.  The  little  windows  in  the  room  glow  in  the 
light  of  the  setting  sun,  which  light  also  makes  all  the  objects  in  the  room  stand 
out  sharp  and  fantastically.      There  is  a  door  in  the  right  wall. 

(Jonathan,  an  unkempt  deaf  mute  of  about  thirty,  is  washing  plates  in 
a  small  wooden  tub  which  stands  on  two  stools  near  the  stove.  Someone 
knocks  several  times  at  the  hall  door.  The  deaf  mute  does  not  turn,  and  so 
the  door  is  opened  and  the  Manager  appears,  masquerading  as  a  mountaineer, 
his  gun  hung  over  his  shoulder,  and  snow  shoes  under  his  arm.) 

The  Manager. —  Jonathan,  is  your  master  in  the  house  ?  Jonathan! 
You  booby,  answer  me!  The  devil  take  you  if  he  is  not  at  home!  What  ? 
Perhaps  he  has  gone  out  to  pick  ice  flowers,  or  to  catch  white  moths  with 
butterfly  nets?     Brr,  it's  beastly  cold  out-of-doors!     Jonathan! 

{Much  startled,  Jonathan  turns  in  alarm  and  delight,  dries  his  hands 
on  his  blue  apron  and  kisses  the  Manager  s  right  hand.) 

The  Manager. —  Is  the  old  man  at  home  ?  Jonathan,  old  Wann  ? 
(Jonathan  utters  some  sounds  and  makes  gestures.)  You  thick-headed 
scoundrel,  you;  express  yourself  more  plainly!  {Jonathan  takes  greater 
pains,  points  vehemently  out  of  the  window  as  a  sign  that  his  master  has 
gone  out;  then  runs  to  the  clock,  which  points  to  quarter  of  five;  shows  with 
his  finger  that  his  master  had  intended  to  return  at  half  past  four;  shrugs 
his  shoulders  in  surprise  that  he  has  not  come  back  yet;  hastens  back  to  the 
window,  presses  his  nose  against  it,  shades  his  eyes  with  his  hand  and  looks- 
out).  Very  good,  I've  taken  that  all  in!  He  has  gone  out  and  will  return 
immediately,  really  ought  to  be  back  here  now!  {The  mute  goes  wow,  wow, 
wow,  imitating  a  dog.)  Just  so,  he  took  his  two  St.  Bernard  dogs  with  him, 
I  understand.  Beautiful!  Wanted  to  give  himself  and  the  dogs  some 
exercise!  Brush  me  off,  knave,  I  am  going  to  stay  here!  {As  he  looks 
just  like  a  snowman,  he  steps  back  into  the  hall,  stamps  and  beats  the  snow 
off  himself,  the  deaf  mute  helping  zealously.) 

{Meanwhile  a  dignified  old  man  enters  almost  noiselessly  by  the  door 
to  the  right.  He  is  tall  and  broad-shouldered,  and  long,  flowing,  white 
hair  covers  his  powerful  head.  His  stern,  beardless  face  is  covered  as  it 
were  with  runes.  Bushy  eyelashes  overshadow  his  large,  protruding  eyes. 
The  man  seems  to  be  ninety  years  old  or  more,  but  in  him  old  age  is  as  it  were 
strength,  beauty  and  youth  raised  to  a  higher  power.  His  dress  is  a  blouse 
of  coarse  linen  with  wide  sleeves,  which  reaches  below  his  knees.  He  wears 
rounded,  red  woolen,  laced  shoes,  and  a  leather  girdle  around  his  loins.      In 


3i6  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

tins  girdle,  uhen  he  enters,  rests  his  large,  splendidly  formed  right  hand. 
It  is  fVann.^ 

[JVann  directs  an  attentive  and  swtliug  glance  into  the  hall,  strides 
quietlx  through  the  room,  and  seats  himself  behind  the  table  at  the  reading 
desk. '  He  rests  his  elboics  on  the  table,  running  his  fingers  thoughtfully 
through  his  hair,  u'hose  white  locks  flow  over  the  open  folio  on  which  he  keeps 
his  e\'es  fixed.  Having  peeled  off  his  overcoat,  the  Manager  enters  again. 
He  does  not  notice  fVann  at  first.) 

The  Manager.— O,  you  gazelles  —  sweet  twins!  So,  now  we  will 
make  ourselves^as  comfortable  as  possible  here  while  we  are  waiting  for 
the  old  sly-boots! 

/f',j„„  _  I  think,  too,  we  will;  and  whilst  so  doing  we'll  drink  some 

black  Falernian. 

The  Manager  {surprised). —  Damn  it!  Where  did  you  come  from  so 
suddenly  ? 

fVann  (smiling). —  Ah,  the  man  who  knew  just  exactly  whence,  my 
dear  sir!     Welcome  to  this  green  land!     Jonathan! 

The  Manager. —  Quite  true!  Everything  is  green  and  blue  before 
your  eyes  after  you  have  slid  down  and  clambered  up  for  four  hours!  I  had 
on  black  glasses,  but  in  spite  of  that,  my  organ  of  vision  seems  to  me  like 
a  pond,  to  whose  bottom  I  have  sunk  and  over  which,  above  me,  little 
colored  islands  are  constantly  swimming. 

ff^ann. —  And  you  would  like  to  get  up  on  one  of  them  ?  Had  I  better 
hunt  up  a  fishing  line  ? 

The  Manager. —  What  for  ? 

ff^ann. —  Oh,  just  something  that  shot  through  my  head.  At  all  events, 
vou  are  a  master  hand  at  snow-shoeing  and  as  daring  as  a  stag,  for  instance, 
IS  mainly,  only  in  November;  and  the  sparrow-hawk  is,  only  when  he  is 
engaged  in  the  pursuit  of  a  victim  and  the  heat  of  the  chase  has  made  him 
blind  and  deaf  to  all  dangers;  it  struck  me  with  amazement  when  I  saw 
you  slide  down  like  a  bird  from  the  top  of  the  Skull-cap.  And  as  you  are 
human,  I  hit  upon  a  third  human  possibility:  you  might,  perhaps,  wish 
to  sweat  out  some  sort  of  disease. 

The  Manager. —  What  doesn't  the  man  think  of  who,  summer  and 
winter,  in  all  kinds  of  weather,  has  nothing  more  to  do  in  all  the  world 
than  go  walking  on  the  milky  way. 

fVann  (laughing). —  I  admit  that  I  often  ride  my  hobby-horse  a  little 
high  and  that  by  so  doing  I  have  grown  something  far-sighted;  but  I  also 
see  very  well  near  by!  For  example,  this  lovely  child  of  Murano  here, 
and  the  beautiful  crystal  decanter  full  of  black  wine  that  Jonathan  is  bringing 
us  for  our  comfort. 


GERHART   HAUPTMANN  317 

(Jonathan  brings  in  on  a  large  silver  tray  two  magnificent,  large,  old 
Venetian  goblets  and  a  cut-glass  decanter  full  of  tuine  and  places  them  on  the 
table.  Wann  himself  fills  the  glasses  carefully.  Each  of  the  men  takes  one 
of  them  and  lifts  it  up  solemnly  toward  the  still  faintly  glimmering  window.) 

The  Manager. —  Montes  chr}'socreos  fecerunt  nos  dominos!  {Gold- 
bearing  mountains  have  made  us  lords!)  Do  you  know  how  you  often 
impress  me,  Wann,  as  one  of  those  mythical,  gold-hunting  fellows,  whom 
the  sauer-kraut-gobbling,  piggishly-filthy,  common  rabble  of  our  mountains 
call  foreigners  ? 

fVann. —  Indeed  ?     And  how  might  that  be,  my  dear  fellow  ? 

The  Manager. —  One  who  possesses  an  Arabian  fairy  palace  of  gold 
and  jasper  in  Venice,  in  the  midst  of  the  waters,  who  yet  takes  up  his  abode 
here  among  us,  and  acts  as  if  he  couldn't  count  up  to  three  and  eats  any 
old  moldy  crust  of  bread. 

Wann. —  Your  health!  Let's  drink  on  that,  my  dear  fellow!  {They 
drink  to  each  other  and  then  laugh  heartily.) 

PTann.—  So,  that's  what  you  think  of  me!  Well,  setting  aside  the 
bread  crusts,  for  my  conscience  is  quite  clear  of  that  hypocrisy,  there  is, 
perhaps,  a  grain  of  truth  in  the  surmise.  If  I  am  not  exactly  one  of 
those  Venetian  manikins  with  their  magic  power,  who  sometimes  appear 
to  the  woodmen  and  other  dreamers,  who  possess  gold  caves,  grottoes  and 
castles  in  the  interior  of  the  earth,  still,  I  do  not  deny  that  these  mountains 
do    in  a  certain  sense  actually  contain  gold  for  me! 

The  Manager. —  Dear  me,  if  one  could  but  be  as  resigned  as  you  are 
to  such  quiet  enjoyment  of  life  in  the  midst  of  snow  and  ice.  Master  Wann! 
No  anxiety  about  your  daily  bread,  no  business,  no  wife  —  way  above  all 
sorts  of  follies  which  still  give  people  of  our  sort  the  headache;  and  so 
absorbed  in  scholarly  pursuits  that  you  don't  see  the  forest  for  the  trees: 
it  is  a  really  ideal  state! 

fVann. —  I  see,  my  portrait  still  varies  at  times  in  your  managerial 
soul.  At  times,  I  am  to  you  a  mythical  personality  who  has  a  house  in 
Venice,  then  again,  an  old  retired  major  who  squanders  his  old  age  income 
harmlessly. 

The  Manager. —  Well,  God  knows  it  is  not  just  exactly  easy  to  form 
the  right  conception  of  you! 

^fl««.— Jonathan,  light  the  lamps!  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  you  can 
see  through  me  somewhat  better  in  the  light! 

{A  short  pause  occurs,  in  u'hich  the  Manager's  uneasiness  increases.) 

The  Manager. —  What  are  you  really  waiting  for  up  here,  year  in, 
year  out,  Wann  ? 


^iS  AND   PIPPA   DANCES 

ffium. —  For  many  things! 

The  Manager. —  They  are,  for  example  ? 

If'atin. —  All  that  the  compass-card  brings:  clouds,  perfumes,  crystals 
o\  ice;  for  the  noiseless  double  lightnings  of  the  great  Pan-fires;  for  the 
little  flames  that  leap  up  from  the  hearth;  for  the  songs  of  the  dead  in  the 
water-fall;  for  nn'  own  happ^•  end;  for  the  new  beginning  and  the  entrance 
into  a  different,  musical,  cosmic  brotherhood. 

The  Manager. —  And,  in  the  meantime,  are  you  never  bored  up  here, 
all  alone  ? 

Jf'ann. —  Whv  should  I  be?  If  thou  wilt  be  alone  thou  wilt  be 
wholly  thine  own.     And  boredom  exists  only  where  God  is  not! 

The  Manager. —  That  would  not  satisfy  me,  my  master!  I  always 
need  e.xternal  stimulation. 

fVann. —  Well,  it  seems  to  me  that  that  which  sustains  in  its  roaring 
the  delight  of  a  great  veneration  is  also  external. 

The  Manager. —  Yes,  yes,  all  very  well!  But  for  me,  now  that  I  am 
so  old,  there  must  always  be  something  youthful,  gay,  lively  in  the  game. 

fVann. —  As,  for  example,  these  lady-bugs  here.  All  winter  long  I 
have  them  here  on  my  table  for  company,  in  the  midst  of  all  sorts  of  play- 
things, just  observe  a  little  beast  like  this  for  awhile.  When  I  do  I 
actually  hear  the  spheres  thunder!     If  it  strikes  you,  you  are  deaf. 

The  Manager. —  This  tack,  I  don't  understand. 

JVann. —  It  is  quite  simple:  the  little  beast  on  my  finger  does  not 
divine  me,  does  not  divine  you.  And  yet  we  are  there,  and  the  world 
around  us,  which  it,  confined  within  its  own  sphere,  is  not  able  to  conceive. 
Our  world  lies  outside  of  its  consciousness.  Think  of  what  lies  outside 
of  ours!  For  example,  is  your  eye  able  to  tell  you  how  the  brook  murmurs 
and  the  cloud  rumbles  :  That  this  is  so,  you  would  never  learn,  if  you 
had  not  the  sense  of  hearing.  And  again,  if  you  had  the  finest  sense  of 
hearing,  you  would  still  know  nothing  to  all  eternity  of  the  magnificent 
outbursts  of  light  in  the  firmament. 

The  Manager. —  Thank  you,  for  the  private  lecture!  I  would  rather 
have  it  some  other  time!  I  can't  sit  still  today.  I  hinted  at  something 
quite  different  — 

Wann  (lifts  his  glass). —  To  the  lovely  child  of  Murano,  probably! 

The  Manager. —  Well,  if  I  did !     How  did  you  know  it  ? 

fVann. —  Of  what  use  is  an  observatory  three  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea  in  central  Germany  }  Of  what  use  is  a  telescope  with  a  lens  made 
by  yourself,  if  you  can't  look  dow^n  sometimes  on  this  old  sublunary  world 
and  keep  a  strict  eye  on  its  children  .''  And  finally,  the  man  whose  shoe 
doesn't  pinch  —  doesn't  go  to  the  cobbler! 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  319 

The  Manager. —  Good!  If  you  really  are  such  a  confounded  physicist, 
putting  your  cobbhng  aside  for  the  time,  I  admit  that  the  shoe  pinches 
me  in  several  places  —  then  please  tell  me,  what  happened  last  night  in 
old  Wende's  tavern  ? 

fVann. —  An  Italian  was  stabbed! 
The  Manager. —  Then  why  do  you  consult  the  book  ? 
Wann. —  A  registrar  is  certainly  needed  in  the  end! 
The  Manager. —  And  are  the  details  noted  in  the  book,  too  ? 
Wann. —  For  the  time  being,  no. 

The  Manager. —  Well  then,  your  telescope  and  your  proud  folios 
amount  to  nothing!  —  I  can't  forgive  myself  for  this  business!  Why 
didn't  I  watch  more  closely!  I  wanted  to  buy  her  from  the  dog,  ten  times  — 
I  —  That's  what  happens,  when  one  is  really  tender-hearted  once  in  awhile. 
{lie  jumps  up  and  walks  around  the  room  very  much  agitated;  finally 
he  stops  behind  the  telescope,  turns  it  around  on  its  stand  and  directs  it  toward 
the  different  night-darkened  windows  one  after  the  other.) 
{The  wind  whistles.) 

The  Manager. —  Senseless,  how  I  always  feel  up  here,  as  if  I  were 
in  a  ship's  cabin  in  a  storm  on  the  great  ocean! 

Wann. —  Doesn't  that  also  express  most  accurately  the  situation  into 
which  we  are  born  } 

The  Manager. —  That  may  be!     But  with  phrases  of  this  kind  nothing 
will  ever  be  gotten  at.     This  doesn't  pull  me  out  of  my  particular  dilemma! 
It  would  be  different  if  one  could  see  anything  through  your  telescope; — 
but  alas,  I  notice  that  that,  too,  it  gives  but  a  misrepresentation  of  facts! 
Wann. —  But  it  is  pitch  dark  night,  dear  sir! 
The  Manager. —  By  daylight,  I  don't  need  a  thing  like  that! 
{He  leaves  the  telescope,  walks  back  and  forth  again  and  finally  stops 
in  front  of  Wann.) 

Wann. —  Well,  out  with  it!     Whom  are  you  seeking? 
The  Manager. —  Her! 

Wann. —  You  lost  sight  of  her  after  the  affair  ? 

The  Manager. —  I  hunt  for  her  but  do  not  find  her!  I  have  had 
enough  of  this  nonsense,  Master  Wann!  If  you  are  one  of  these  crazy 
quack-salvers,  pull  the  thorn  out  for  me!  I  can  not  live  and  I  can  not 
die.  lake  a  scalpel  in  your  hand  and  search  for  the  poisoned  arrow-head 
which  is  sticking  somewhere  in  my  cadaver  and  forcing  itself  further 
in  with  every  minute.  I  am  tired  of  the  distress  and  irritation,  of  the 
sleeplessness  and  poor  appetite.  I  should  be  willing  to  become  a  papal  singer, 
just  to  br  rid  for  one  moment  of  this  accursed  longing  which  torments  me. 


320  AND   PIPPA  DANCES 

[Hf  sinks  down  on  a  chair y  breathing  heavily,  and  wipes  the  sweat  from 
his  forehead.      fVann  rises  with  some  ceremoniousness.) 

ff'ann. —  And  vou  are  in  earnest  about  the  cure  ?  You  will  really 
give  yourself  into  my  hands  ? 

The  Manager. —  Of  course  1  will!     What  else  did  I  come  here  for? 

ffann. —  And  you  will  hold  still  even  if  it  is  necessary  to  pull  from 
vour  soul  with  a  jerk  the  whole  of  the  evil  growth  with  all  the  roots  that 
branch  out  into  the  very  tips  of  your  toes  ? 

The  Manager. —  And  if  it  be  horse  physic! 

Wann. —  Well,  then  be  so  kind  as  to  pay  attention,  my  dear  fellows. 
Now  I  clap  my  hands  the  first  time!  {He  does  it.)  If  the  graybeard 
could  not  do  more  than  the  man,  what  were  the  meaning  of  old  age  ? 
{He  draiL's  forth  a  long,  silken  cloth.)  Now  I  clap  my  hands  the  second 
time.  {He  does  it.)  Afterward  I  bind  this  cloth  over  my  mouth,  as  the 
Parsee  does  when  he  prays  — 

The  Manager  {impatiently). —  And  then  I  shall  go  my  way,  for  I  see 
you  are  mocking  me,  Master  Wann! 

Wann. and  then:  incipit  vita  nova  {the  new  life  begins),  dear  sir! 

{He  slips  the  bandage  over  his  mouth  and  claps  his  hands  vigorously.) 

{Immediately,  as  if  called  there  by  magic,  Pippa,  half  frozen  and  strug- 
gling for  breath,  rushes  in;  a  cloud  of  fog  penetrates  the  room  after  her 
entrance.) 

Pippa  {rushes  forward,  crying  out  hoarsely). —  Save  him!  Save  him! 
Help,  you  men!  Thirty  steps  from  here,  Michael  is  dying  in  the  snow! 
He  is  lying  there,  suffocating!  He  can  not  stand  up!  Bring  light!  He 
is  freezing  to  death;  he  can  go  no  further!  The  night  is  fearful!  Come 
with  me,  come  with  me! 

The  Manager  {stares  in  boundless  amazement,  now  at  Pippa,  now  at 
his  host). —  Are  you  the  devil  himself,  Wann  ? 

fVann. —  The  cure  is  beginning.  Don't  plead  any  weariness!  A  rope! 
Tie  that  end  fast  here,  Jonathan! 

(Pippa  seizes  tVann  by  the  hand  and  drags  him  out.  The  Manager 
follows  as  if  stupefied.  The  room  is  empty  and  the  storm  roars  through  the 
hall,  sweeping  clouds  of  snow  through  with  it.  All  at  once  the  head  of  old 
Huhn  is  visible  in  the  hall  door.  After  the  old  man  has  assured  himself 
that  there  is  no  one  in  the  room,  he  steals  in.  He  stares  at  the  objects  in  the 
room,  and  when  the  voice  of  the  returning  Wann  is  heard,  he  hides  himself 
behind  the  stove.) 

fVann  (still  in  the  hallway,  drawing  the  others  after  him  along  the  rope). — 
Bolt  the  doors  securely,  Jonathan!  — 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  321 

{Now  the  half-frozen  Michael  Hellriegely  supported  by  Wann  and  the 
Manager,  is  seen.  He  is  brought  into  the  room  and  laid  on  the  bench  by  the 
stove;  Pippa  draws  his  shoes  off  and  the  Manager  rubs  his  chest.) 

Wann  {to  Jonathan). — A  cup  full  of  hot  black  coffee  mixed  with  cognac! 

The  Manager. —  Thunder  and  hail!  It's  cold  enough  to  freeze  your 
mouth  shut!     The  air  outside  there  stings  like  needles  and  butcher  knives! 

Wann. —  Yes,  it  is  a  night!  You  know,  at  least,  when  you  gasp  for 
breath  in  these  black  Hades-flames  that  you  are  a  fighter  and  still  a  long 
distance  away  from  the  paradises  of  light.  Only  one  little  spark  from 
there  has  found  the  way!  Bravely,  little  one,  hast  thou  fought  thy  way 
through! 

Pippa. —  Michael,  signore,  Michael,  not  I. 

Wann. —  How  do  you  feel,  sir  ? 

The  Manager. —  What  kind  of  a  man  you  are,  I  know  not!  But  in 
other  respects,  I  am  as  amused  as  if  I  were  at  a  hanging!  After  all,  it  is 
just  as  wonderful  that  a  fly  should  soil  my  shirt  collar,  as  that  you  or  anyone 
else  should  bring  about  such  an  occurrence. 

Wann. —  Instead  of  one  there  has  grown  to  be  two  of  them! 

The  Manager. —  Thank  you!  Even  my  brain  can  still  grasp  that! 
To  be  sure,  my  suspicions  rested  on  Huhn,  and  then  ?  instead  of  him  it 
is  a  simpleton!     Jonathan,  my  snow-shoes,  quick! 

Wann. —  Going  already  ? 

The  Manager. —  Two  are  enough!  The  third,  too  many!  True  it  is 
in  a  way  new  to  me  to  carry  out  generosity  to  its  highest  power,  but  it  is 
not  the  right  vocation  for  me  permanently!  Don't  you  think  so,  too,  little 
Pippa  ^. 

Pippa  {weeping  softly,  is  drying  and  rubbing  MichaeVs  feet  with  her 
hair). —  What  is  it,  signore? 

The  Manager. —  You  know  me,  don't  you  }  {Pippa  shakes  her  head 
no).  Haven't  you  seen  me  somewhere  before.''  {Pippa  again  shakes  her 
head  in  denial.)  Didn't  some  good  uncle  bring  you  for  three  or  four  years 
sugar-plums,  pretty  corals  and  silk  ribbons  '^  {Pippa  shakes  her  head 
confidently,  in  denial  of  this.)  Bravo!  I  thought  so!  Didn't  you  have 
a  father,  who  is  dead  .''     {Pippa  shakes  her  head.) 

Wann.—  Do  you  notice  anything,  sir  } 

The  Manager. —  Do  I  notice  anything! 

/Fflnrj.— What  a  powerful  old  magician  has  taken  a  part  in  this.'' 

The  Manager.- -  Of  course,  that's  understood!  jolly  Chinese  puzzle, 
that's  the  world!  {Tapping  on  MicliarFs  forehead  with  his  third  finger.) 
You,  in  here,  when  you  waken,  knock  again  at  heaven's  gate,  perhaps  the 


322 


AND   PIPPA   DANCES 


good  Goil  will  say:  come  in!  Good-by!  Rub  Michael  back,  to  life!  {In 
the'  Juill.)  I  wish  you  may  all  sup  well!  I  have  been  helped!  I  am  cured! 
Hurrah!     Mav  the  devil  himself  unbar  hell! 

{The  opening  of  the  house-door  is  heard  and  then  the  Manager  s  hurrah, 
repeated  several  times  out-of-doors.) 

HeUriegel  {opens  his  eyes,  jumps  up  and  at  the  same  time  ealls  out). — 
Hurrah!     Hurrah,  there  we  have  it,  little  Pippa! 

Wann  [steps  back,  astonished  and  amused). —  Eh!  What  is  it  that  we 
have,  if  I  may  ask  ? 

HeUriegel. —  Oh,  so  we  are  not  alone,  little  Pippa!  Tell  me,  where 
did  the  old  man  come  from  so  suddenly  ? 

Pippa  {timidly,  aside). —  Oh,  I  didn't  know  what  else  to  do! 

HeUriegel. —  But,  wasn't  it  splendid!  Isn't  it  a  delight  to  you,  to 
climb  up  like  that  through  storm  and  winter  ?  To  go  merrily  forward  hand 
in  hand  ? 

Wann. —  Where  are  you  journeying,  if  one  may  ask  ? 

HeUriegel. —  Ah,  old  man!  Who  is  going  to  be  so  curious  ?  Do  I  ask 
you  why  you  muffle  yourself  up,  up  here,  keep  yourself  warm  and  eat  baked 
apples  ? 

fVann. —  This  is  certainly  a  devil  of  a  fellow  that  you  have  here,  dear 
child! 

HeUriegel. —  To  wander  always  and  never  to  think  of  the  goal!  It  is 
deemed  too  near  or  it  is  deemed  too  far.  Besides  I  surely  feel  my  bones 
tingling. 

Pippa  {timidly). —  Michael,  couldn't  we  perhaps  be  a  little  grateful 
to  the  friendly  old  man,  or  do  you  think  not  ? 

HeUriegel. —  Why  should  we  be  .? 

Pippa. —  Why  he  saved  us  from  freezing! 

HeUriegel. —  Freezing  ?  Michael  will  take  good  care  not  to  do  that 
yet  awhile!  If  we  had  just  missed  this  place  of  refuge,  well,  we  would  now 
be  ten  good  miles  further  on  our  way.  Think,  Pippa,  ten  miles  nearer  the 
goal!  When  a  man  possesses  the  magic  ball  of  twine  and  has  received 
unequivocal  signs  from  above,  in  great  numbers,  that  he  is  called  to  some- 
thing —  called  to  discover  at  the  very  least  kneadable  glass! 

Wann. —  You  laugh,  my  little  one:  do  you  believe  that  he  is  ^.  {Pippa 
looks  up  at  Wann  with  belief  in  her  eyes  and  nods  her  head  emphatically  in 
the  affirmative.)  Indeed  t  Well,  he  certainly  speaks  in  a  way  that  awakens 
belief.  Now,  have  a  good  talk  together,  I  won't  disturb  you!  {He  takes 
his  seat  behind  his  book-table,  but  watches  the  two  surreptitiously;  at  the 
same  time  turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  large  volume.) 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  323 

Pippa  {confidentially). —  Look  around,  Michael,  see  where  we  are! 

Hellriegel. —  In  just  the  right  place,  it  this  moment  occurs  to  me.  The 
yarn  has  led  us  just  right.  Didn't  you  notice  how  it  drew  us  ever  forward 
and  out  of  the  storm  } 

Pippa. —  But  that  was  the  old  man's  rope,  Michael! 

Hellriegel — Eh,  it  is  not  as  you  imagine  it,  little  one!  In  the  first 
place,  we  had  to  come  here  in  any  case.  To  begin  with,  I  saw  the  light 
all  the  time  we  were  climbing.  But  even  if  I  had  not  seen  the  light,  an 
irresistible  power  within  me  dragged  and  tugged  me  onward  toward  this 
protecting  roof! 

Pippa. —  I  am  so  glad  that  we  are  safe,  and  yet,  I  am  still  a  little  bit 
afraid ! 

Hellriegel. —  What  are  you  afraid  of? 

Pippa. —  I  don't  know  what!  I  wonder  whether  the  doors  are  shut 
tight  ? 

Wann  {who  has  heard  this). —  They  are  locked  tight! 

Pippa  {says  to  Wann  simply  and  innocently). —  Oh  sir,  you  are  good, 
I  see  it  in  your  face!  But  for  all  that  —  we  must  go  on  —  mustn't  we, 
Michael .? 

fVann. —  Why  must  you  ^.     Who  is  on  your  trail .? 

Hellriegel. —  No  one!  At  least  no  one  who  causes  us  any  concern! 
But  if  you  want  to  go  away  from  here,  then  come,  little  Pippa! 

fVann. —  Do  you  really  think  I  shall  let  you  go  away  .? 

Hellriegel. —  Certainly!     How  would  you  keep  us  here.? 

Wann. —  I  am  not  wanting  in  means!  I  do  not  ask  you  whither  you 
are  going;  whither  you  are  bound  with  this  frightened  little  moth  that  has 
flown  against  my  lamp;  but  through  this  night,  you  shall  remain  here. 

Hellriegel  [planting  himself  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  his  legs  spread 
apart). —  Hello!     Hello!     Here  is  still  another! 

Wann. —  Who  knows  what  sort  of  a  bird  you  are!  Perhaps  one  who 
undressed  to  learn  shivering:  have  patience,  you  will  learn  it    soon  enough! 

Hellriegel. —  Don't  get  angry,  dear  uncle,  the  house  is  still  standing, 
as  my  little  mother  says.     But  whether  we  go  or  stay  is  our  affair! 

Wann. —  You  must  have  very  big  notions  of  yourself  in  your  knapsack! 

Hellriegel. —  Indeed  .?  Do  1  look  as  though  I  had  something  of  that 
sort  in  my  pack!  It  is  quite  possible!  Think  of  it!  Well,  enough  of 
that!  My  knapsack  answers  pretty  well,  though  there  are  other  things  in 
it  than  a  few  paltry  n()tif)ns.  So  if  my  cap  sets  that  way,  we  will  go;  and 
you  can  keep  us  here  as  little  as  you  could  two  swans  who  journey  under 
a  mackerel  sky  like  two  points  travelling  toward  the  South. 


3^4  AND   PIPPA  DANCES 

fVann. —  I  grant  ycm  that,  young  cloud-dweller!  But  sometimes  I 
succeed  in  enticing  those  hirds  to  my  little  trough,  and  that,  for  example, 
is  what  I  have  done  to  you. 

(Jonathan  sets  out  the  table  near  the  stove  with  southern  fruits,  steaming 
iL'ine  and  cakes.) 

Hellriegel. —  The  little  trough!  We  are  not  hungry,  we  will  not  eat! 
Michael  is  not  dependent  on  anything  like  that! 

ff  ann. —  Since  when  isn't  he  ? 

Hellriegel. —  Since  —  since  he  found  river-gold  in  mud! 

Wann  (to  Pip  pa).—  And  you  ? 

Pippa. —  I  am  not  hungry  either! 

Wann.—  No  ? 

Pippa  {aside  to  Michael). —  You  have  your  table  set  thyself,  of  course! 

fVann. —  So  you  won't  do  me  the  honor  ? 

Hellriegel. —  I  notice  that  you,  too,  are  one  of  those  who  have  not  the 
slightest  suspicion  of  who  Michael  Hellriegel  is.  What  do  I  care;  and  what 
good  would  it  do  to  discuss  it  with  you  ?  You  must  know  that  the  archangel 
Michael  is  a  hero  and  conqueror  of  dragons;  you  do  not  doubt  that.  Now, 
however,  I  simply  need  to  go  on  and  for  all  I  care  swear  ten  oaths,  I  have 
witnessed  miracle  upon  miracle  since  yesterday  and  have  come  oft'  victorious 
from  an  adventure  just  as  astonishing,  and  you  will  say:  why  not,  here  is 
a  man  who  plays  the  ocarina.     I  need  only  to  tell  about  my  knapsack  — 

fVann. —  O,  Michael,  you  delightful  child  of  God!  Had  I  suspected 
that  it  was  vou,  I  have  been  following  with  my  telescope  since  daybreak, 
todav,  and  enticing  to  my  little  bowl  filled  with  hot  blood  for  souls'  food; 
I  had  decorated  mv  hut  festively  and  received  you  —  that  you  might  see 
that  I,  too,  am  something  of  a  musician  —  received  you  with  quintets  and 
roses!  Be  peaceful,  Michael,  be  friendly!  And  I  advise  you  to  eat  a  little 
something!  Well  filled  though  you  may  be  with  heaven's  blue,  only  the  soul 
can  be  satisfied  with  that;  never  the  body  of  a  big,  tall  fellow  like  you! 

Hellriegel  [goes  up  to  the  table,  takes  a  plate  from  it,  eats  eagerly  and 
says  in  an  aside  to  Pippa). —  The  food  goes  against  me,  I  don't  want  it! 
I  just  eat  it  to  get  away  politely  — 

Wann. —  Eat,  Michael,  eat,  don't  argue  about  it!     It  doesn't  do  any 

good  to  dispute  with  the  Lord  God  because  you  have  to  breathe  and  eat 

and  sw^allow!     Afterward  you  float  and  flutter  so  much  the  more  beautifully! 

Pippa  {steals  over  to  Wann,  while  Michael  is  absorbed  in  eating,  and 

whispers  to  him  with  great  delight). —  I  am  so  glad  Michael  is  eating. 

Wann. —  He  is  eating  in  his  sleep,  so  don't  waken  him!  or  he  will  let 
his  knife  and  fork  fall,  will  plunge  three  thousand  feet  high  in  the  air  and 
probably  break  his  neck  and  legs. 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  325 

{He  takes  from  the  table  carefully,  tn  both  hands,  a^ model  of  a  Venetian 
gondola.) 

Wann. —  Can  you  tell  me  what  this  represents  ? 

Pippa. —  No. 

Wann. —  Think!  Has  there  never  ghded  through  your^.dreams  a  black 
vessel  like  this  ? 

Pippa  {quickly). —  Yes,  sometime,  a  long  time  ago,  I  remember! 

Wann. —  Do  you  know,  too,  what  a  powerful  tool  it  is  ? 

Pippa  {meditatively). —  I  know  only,  that  once  I  used  to  glide  between 
houses,  at  night,  in  a  barque  like  that. 

Wann. —  That's  it!  [To  Michael).  Now,  for  all  I  care,  you  can  prick 
up  your  ears,  too,  so  that  little  by  little,  you  may  arrive  at  the  knowledge 
that  there  is  someone  here  beside  yourself  who  understands  something  of 
aeronautics  and  many  other  things. 

Hellriegel. —  Well,  out  with  what  you  have  to  say! 

Wann. —  Well  then,  this  little  craft  created  the  mystical  city  between 
two  skies,  that  is  the  city  at  the  heart  of  the  earth,  wherein  you  too,  good 
child,  were  born.  For  you  come  out  of  a  mystery  and  will  return  into  it 
again. 

Hellriegel.— Hopl  There  comes  something  flying!  Hop!  Again, 
another  picture!  a  rat!  a  salt-herring,  a  girl!  a  miracle!  Gather  them  all 
together:  an  ocarina!  Always  hop,  hop,  hop!  When  I  went  away  from 
my  mother,  on  a  tramp,  well  as  I  was  prepared  for  all  sorts  of  hocus-pocus 
and  though  I  went  to  meet  it  skipping  with  joy,  still  even  now  the  cold 
sweat  often  comes  out  on  my  forehead.  {With  his  knife  and  fork  in  his 
fists,  he  stares  thoughtfully  straight  in  front  of  him.)  So  he  knows  the  city 
where  we  wish  to  go! 

Wann. —  Of  course  I  know  it,  and  —  if  you  had  confidence  in  me  — 
I  could  do  something  for  you  and  with  advice  and  suggestion  point  out  to 
you  the  way  thither.  In  the  end,  who  knows,  perhaps  something  more  than 
that!  For,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  when  I  observe  you  very  carefully,  doubts 
do  come  to  me  whether  you  really  do  float  in  the  sky  so  high,  so  secure  and 
so  certain  of  your  goal!  You  have  something  in  you,  how  shall  I  say  it, 
something  of  birds  who  have  been  beaten  out  of  their  course,  and  are  driven 
helplessly  in  the  direction  of  the  North  Pole.  At  the  mercy  of  every  wind, 
so  to  speak!  Don't  start,  Michael,  don't  become  excited!  You  won't 
own  up  to  it  that  you  are  horribly  played  out  and  tired,  nor  will  you  own 
up  U)  the  undefined  fear,  the  dread  that  still  takes  possession  of  you  at 
times,  although  you  have  in  a  measure  escaped  the  terrors  of  a  winter-night 
flight. 

{At  the  mention  of  flight  and  fear,  Hellriegel  springs  up  and  Pippa  and 


320  AND   PIPPA  DANCES 

he  look  at  each  other  anxiously.     Now,  he  moves  uneasily  toward  the  door 
of  the  room  and  listens  into  the  hall.) 

Hellriegel. —  just  be  calm,  Michael!  That's  the  main  thing!  I  take 
it  that  the  doors  are  properly  locked  and  bolted  ?  —  Then  at  any  rate  we 
have  nothing  to  fear!  {He  comes  back.)  For  all  I  know  —  it  may  be  that 
perhaps  vou  are  something  unusual!  In  any  case,  you  may  be  sure  we  are 
gomg  to  eat  oranges  tomorrow  afternoon  in  the  beautiful  water- and  glass- 
makers'  city,  where  the  water  bursts  forth  into  glass  blossoms;  in  the  city 
of  whose  ever)-  little  bridge,  flight  of  steps  and  narrow  street,  I  have  dreamed 
accurately  all  my  life  long  —  in  any  case,  you  may  be  sure  —  but  for  all 
I  care:  how  far  have  we  still  to  go? 

Wann. —  That  depends,  Michael,  on  how  you  travel. 

Hellriegel. —  Let  us  say  in  practical  fashion. 

Wann  (smiling). —  Then  you  will  probably  never  get  there.  But  if 
you  travel  in  this  little  vessel  in  which  the  first  pile-drivers  rode  out  into 
the  lagunes  and  out  of  which,  as  out  of  a  floating  incense  bowl,  fantastic 
smoke,  Venice,  the  artist's  dream,  arose,  in  which  the  showy,  stone  city 
was  precipitated  as  a  crystal  is  in  lye,  —  Yes,  if  you  travel  in  this  little  vessel 
and  by  means  of  the  miracle  that  you  have  experienced,  then  you  can  at 
once  see  everything  your  longing  soul  aspires  to  see. 

Hellriegel. —  Hold!  I  must  first  engage  in  a  silent  communion  with 
my  own  thoughts.  But  give  me  the  thing  in  my  hand!  {He  takes  the  little 
boat  and  holds  it  in  his  hands.)  So  I  am  to  travel  in  this  nut-shell  ?  Oh 
yes!  How  wise  our  old  host  is  after  all,  and  what  an  ass  is  Michael!  But 
just  how  do  you  accomplish  the  getting  into  this  ?  O  please,  I  am  no 
spoil-sport!  Now  I  see  through  the  matter:  I  am  only  afraid  I  shall  lose 
my  way  in  the  little  boat!  If  I  am  really  to  go  this  way,  then  I  would 
prefer  to  take  with  me  my  two  sisters,  my  six  older  brothers,  my  uncles 
and  the  rest  of  my  relatives,  who,  thank  God,  are  all  tailors. 

fVann. —  Courage,  Michael!  When  you  are  once  out  of  the  harbor, 
there  is  no  going  back:  you  must  go  on,  out  into  the  high  billows.  And 
you  {to  Pippa)  must  give  him  the  magic  wind  for  his  sails! 

Hellriegel. —  That  pleases  me,  that  will  be  a  queer  voyage! 

Wann  (guiding  Pippa's  little  finger  around  the  edge  of  a  Venetian 
glass). —  Sail  away,  sail  away,  little  gondoletta!     Repeat  it  after  me. 

Pippa. —   Sail  away,  sail  away,  little  gondoletta! 

Wann. — 

From  night  of  winter,  from  ice  and  snow, 
Away  from  storm-shaken  cabins  go! 


GERHART   HAUPTMANN  327 

Pippa  {laughing). — 

From  night  of  winter,  from  ice  and  snow, 
Away  from  storm-shaken  cabins  go! 

Wann. — 

Sail  away,  sail  away,  little  gondoletta! 

(From  the  glass  whose  edge  Pippa  is  rubbing  there  comes  a  low  tone 
which  grows  louder  and  louder  until  other  tones  join  with  it  and  the  harmony 
then  formed  swells  and  grows  into  a  short  but  powerful  musical  storm,  which 
suddenly  recoils  and  becomes  silent.  Michael  Hellriegel  falls  into  a  hypnotic 
sleep,  %vith  his  eyes  open.) 

Wann. — 

Now  Michael  solitary  sails  above  the  clouds, 

Silent  the  journeying,  for  at  that  lofty  height 

Sound  dieth,  since  it  findeth  no  resistance  there. 

Where  art  thou  ? 
Hellriegel. — 

Proudly  I  sail  through  the  dawn's  red  glow! 

Wann. — 

And  on  what  wonders  new  and  strange  dost  thou  now  gaze  ? 

Hellriegel. — 

On  more  than  soul  of  man  can  ever  grasp,  I  gaze, 

And  over  hyacinthine  seas  I  wing  my  flight! 
Wann. — 

Only  thy  ship  is  sinking  downward  now!  —  or  no? 
Hellriegel. — 

I  know  not.     All  the  mountains  of  the  earth,  it  seems. 

Mount  up  to  me.     Gigantic  towers  up  the  world. 

Wann. — 

And  now } 
Hellriegel. — 

Now  I  am  sinking  downward  noiselessly, 

And  now  my  skiff  'mid  gardens  rushes  silently. 
Wann. — 

Thou  call'st  these  gardens  that  thou  see'st  \ 
Hellriegel. — 

Yes!  but  of  stone. 

The  marble  blossoms  all  arc  mirrored  in  blue  plains, 

And  the  white  columns  tremble  in  the  emerald  ground. 


328  AND   PIPPA   DANCES 

JVamu— 

Halt  there,  good  ferr) man.     And  tell  us  where  thou  art! 
HellriegA.— 

On  stairways  now  I  set  my  foot,  on  tapestries, 
And  in  a  hall  of  coral  now  I  tread  my  way! 
And  now,  at  golden  portals  do  I  knock  three  times! 
JVann.— 

And  tell  me,  on  the  knocker  what  words  readest  thou  ? 
Hdlrifgd.— 

Montes  chrysocreos  fecerunt  nos  dominos! 
{Gold-heanug  mountains  have  made  us  lords!) 
Wann. — 

What  happens  when  the  echoes  of  thy  knocking  cease  ? 
{Michael  Hellriegel  does  tiot  answer,  instead  he  begins  to  groan  as  if  he 
had  nightmare.) 
Pippa. — 

Oh,  waken  him,  please  waken  him,  dear,  wise,  old  man! 
Wann  [as  he  takes  the  little  boat  out  of  Michael's  hands). — 
Enough!    To  this  secluded  cabin  come  once  more. 
Return  again  to  us,  snowbound  and  exiled  here. 
And  quake  and  shake  the  golden  spoils  of  voyages 
Into  our  laps,  while  we  sit  here  repining. 
(Michael   Hellriegel   wakens,   looks    around   perplexedly,    and   tries   to 
remember.) 

Hellriegel. —  Hello!  Why  does  that  confounded  old  grunting-ox, 
Huhn,  stand  at  the  gate,  threaten  me  and  refuse  to  let  me  enter .?  Just  slip 
the  golden  key  out  to  me  through  the  grating,  Pippa!  I  will  steal  in  through 
a  little  side  door!  Where.?  Pippa!  Confound  it!  No!  Where  am  I?  Par- 
don me,  old  man,  it  is  better  not  to  swear  when  anything  of  this  kind  —  when 
after  all,  you  have  been  hoaxed!  Into  what  sort  of  an  infernal  box  have 
I  slid  t  Hang  it  all,  what  is  going  on  here  ^.  Where  is  Pippa  .?  Have  you 
still  theigolden  key  }  Here!  give  it  here!  We  will  open  the  door  quickly! 
Pippa. —  Wake  up,  Michael!  You  are  just  dreaming!  Try  to  think! 
Hellriegel. —  But  I  would  rather  be  a  dreamer  than  wake  up  in  such 
a  mean  way,  fourteen  miles  deep  down  in  the  puddle.  I  can't  see  my  hand 
before  my  eyes  here!  What  does  it  mean.?  Who  is  pressing  his  thumbs 
into  my  throat  ?  Who  is  crushing  the  happiness  out  of  my  breast  with 
a   mountain-load  of  fear  ? 

Wann. —  Have  no  fear!  no  fear  at  all,  good  Michael!     Everything  in 
this  house  is  in  my  power,  and  there  is  nothing  in  it  that  can  harm  you. 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN 


329 


Hellriegel. —  But  why,  oh  why,  Master,  did  you  call  me  back  so  soon 
into  this  grave-hole  ?  Why  didn't  that  ragged,  old  wild  beast  let  me  into 
my  magic,  water-castle  ?  It  was  the  very  one  I  have  always  wished  for,  the 
very  same  one!  I  recognized  it  perfectly  as  the  one  I  dreamed  of  when  I 
was  a  little  boy  and  sat  in  front  of  the  stove, —  and  Pippa  looked  out  of  the 
window, —  and  the  water  played  delightfully,  like  roulades  on  the  flute, 
around  the  walls  below  her!  Let  us  make  the  journey  once  again!  Make 
us  a  present  of  your  charming  little  gondola,  and  without  hesitating  —  I 
offer  you  for  it  my  whole  knapsack  with  all  its  precious  contents! 

fVann. —  No,  Michael,  not  yet!  Have  patience!  For  the  present, 
you  are  much  too  hotblooded  to  suit  me!  And  I  beg  you  both  to  still  your 
beating  hearts  and  not  to  be  afraid.  Believe  me  there  will  be  another 
day  tomorrow.  There  are  many  guest  chambers  in  my  house,  I  beg  you, 
tarr}'  until  morning  with  me!  Grant  me  the  pleasure  of  harboring  for  one 
night  perfect,  young  hope!  Tomorrow,  you  shall  journey  on,  and  God  be 
with  you!     Jonathan  show  the  stranger  upstairs! 

Hellriegel. —  We  belong  together,  we  will  not  be  separated! 

fVann. —  Arrange  it  as  you  wish  to  or  will,  good  Michael,  sleep  will 
always  take  her  out  of  your  hands  and  you  will  have  to  leave  her  to  her  fate 
and  God! 

{Hellriegel  takes  Pippa  in  his  arms.  He  looks  at  her  and  sees  that  she 
has  almost  lost  consciousness  from  her  great  fatigue:  so,  as  she  has  fallen 
asleep,  he  lays  her  down  on  the  bench  by  the  wall.) 

Hellriegel. —  And  you  stand  security  for  her  } 

fVann. —  Solemnly! 

Hellriegel  {kisses  Pippa  on  the  forehead). —  Until  morning,  then! 

Wann. —  Sleep  well!  Good  night!  And  far  away  on  the  Adriatic 
dreams  a  house  that  waits  for  new  and  youthful  guests. 

(Jonathan  stands  in  the  door  with  a  light.  Hellriegel  tears  himself  away 
and  disappears  with  him  in  the  hallway.  fVann  looks  at  Pippa  for  awhile 
gravely  and  thoughtfully;  then  he  says): 

fVann. — 

Into  my  winter  cabin,  magic  forced  his  way. 
My  wisdom's  wall  of  ice,  he  broke  through  robber-like, 
By  gold  enticed.     A  shelter  safe  I  furnished  him 
From  out  my  soul  paternal,  with  old  malice  full. 
Who  is  the  fop  that  he  should  wish  to  make  his  own 
This  child  divine  who  makes  my  vessels  sail  for  me  — 
1  hey  creak  and  crack  and  swing  so  gently  to  and  fro. 
The  old  dry  hulls  archaeologically  hung!  — 


330 


AND   PIPPA   DANCES 


Why  then  do  I  put  him,  this  Michael,  in  my  ship, 
Instead  of  sailing  forth  myself,  triumphantly. 
Forth  in  mv  galleon,  commanding  my  Nvhole  fleet. 
To  subjugate  abandoned  heavens  once  agam. 
O,  ice  on  my  old  forehead,  ice  in  my  old  blood! 
You  thaw  before  a  sudden  breath  of  happiness. 
Thou  holy  breath,  O,  kindle  not  in  my  old  breast 
Consuming  fires  of  greed,  of  avarice  and  wild  lusts, 
Till  I  must  swallow  mine  own  children,  Saturn-like. 
Sleep!     Over  )our  sleep  I  w'atch,  for  you  I  guard 
What  fleets  aw^ay.     As  pictured  forms  ye  float  by  me, 
So  long  as  my  own  soul  remains  a  picture  still, 
Not  Being, —  not  clear,  viewless  element  alone. 
Moulder,  ye  hulls!  for  journeys  new  I  have  no  thirst. 
{He  has  raised  the  sleeping  girl,  supported  her  and  led  her  slowly  and 
with  fatherly  solicitude  into  the  chamber  to  the  right.     After   he   and  Pippa 
have  disappeared,  Huhn  comes  out  from  behind  the  stove  and  stands  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  his  gaze  fixed  on  the  chamber  door.      Wann  comes  out  of 
the  chamber  backward,  pulls  the  door  shut  after  him,  and  speaks  without 
noticing  Huhn.     He  turns  toward  the  models  of  the  ships  and  in  so  doing 
sees  Huhn.     At  first,  doubting  the  reality  of  the  vision,  he  holds  his  hands 
above  his  eyes  to  investigate;  when  he  lets  it  drop,  his  every  muscle  tightens 
and  both  men  measure  each  other  with  eyes  filed  with  hatred.) 

fVann  {slowly,  quivering  with  rage). —  No  —  road  —  passes  —  through 
—  here!  — 

Huhn     {in     the    same     manner). —  No  —  word  — passes  —  muster  — 
here! — 

Wann. —  Come  on! 

{Huhn  pushes  forward  and  they  stand  opposite  each  other  in  wrestlers 
positions.) 

Huhn. —  This  is  all  mine!  —  all  mine,  all  mine,  all  mine! 
Wann. — 

You  black,  bloodthirsty  bundle!     Night-born  lump  of  greed, 
You  yet  gasp  forth  some  sounds  that  seem  like  words! 
{Old  Huhn   attacks  him  and  they  wrestle;  suddenly  old  Huhn   utters 
a  frightful  shriek  and    immediately  afterward  hangs  defenceless  in  Wanns 
arms.      Wann  lets  the  gasping  old  man  sink  gently  to  the  floor.) 
Wann. — 

Thus  must  it  come  to  pass,  giant  uncouth!     O  thou 
Sick,  wild,  strong  animal!  —  Break  open  stables  then! 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  331 

Here  is  no  provender  for  prowling  beasts  of  prey  — 
Here  in  this  snowbound  house  of  God! 


ACT  IV 

{This  act  immediately  follows  the  third  act,  in  the  same  room.  Old 
Huhn  lies  on  the  bench  by  the  stove,  the  sound  of  the  death-rattle  in  his  throat 
is  loud  and  horrible.  His  chest  is  bare,  his  long  rust-red  hair  falls  to  the 
ground.  Old  fVann  stands  by  him,  upright,  his  left  hand  laid  on  Huhn's 
breast. 

Pippa,  shy  and  trembling,  an  expression  of  great  fear  on  her  face,  comes 
out  of  the  door  to  the  right.) 

Wann. —  Come  in,  you  little  trembling  flame,  you,  come  right  in! 
There  is  now  no  further  danger  for  you,  if  you  are  a  little  cautious! 

Pippa. —  I  knew  it!  O,  I  knew  and  felt  it,  signore!  Hold  him  down! 
Bind  him  fast! 

fVann. —  So  far  as  he  can  be  bound,  I  can  bind  him. 

Pippa. —  Is  it  old  Huhn,  or  isn't  it  ? 

Wann. —  The  torture  disfigures  his  face.  But  if  you  look  at  him  more 
closely  — 

Pippa. —  Then  he  looks  almost  like  yourself! 

fVann. —  I  am  a  human  being  and  he  wants  to  be:  how  did  you  happen 
to  notice  it  ? 

Pippa. —  I  do  not  know,  signore! 

(Hellriegel  appears  in  the  hall  door,  frightened.) 

Hellriegel. —  Where  is  Pippa  ^  I  had  a  foreboding  that  the  lousy 
idiot  would  be  at  our  heels!  Pippa!  God  be  thanked  that  you  are  again 
under  my  protection! 

fVann. —  Nobody  touched  a  hair  of  her  head  even  when  you  were  not 
here! 

Hellriegel. —  It  is  better,  however,  for  me  to  be  here! 

Wann. —  May  it  please  Heaven!  Fetch  me  in  a  bucket  full  of  snow! 
Bring  snow!  We  will  lay  snow  on  his  heart,  so  that  the  poor,  captive  beast, 
beating  its  wings  in  his  breast,  may  be  calmed! 

Hellriegel. —  Is  he  hurt .? 

Wann. —  It  may  well  be! 

Hellriegel. —  What  do  we  gain  by  it  if  he  recovers  his  strength  ^.  He 
will  strike  around  him  with  his  fists  and  beat  us  all  three  into  mincemeat! 

Wann. —  Not  me!  and  not  anyone  else,  if  you  are  sensible! 

Pippa. —  It  is  he,  I  am  sure  of  it!     It  is  the  old  glass-blower,  Huhn! 


332 


AND   PIPPA   DANCES 


ff'ann. —  Do  vou  recognize  him,  now:  the  guest  who  came  so  late,  to 
await  here  a  higher  than  he  ?  Come  close  to  him,  little  one,  don't  be  afraid, 
vour  pursuer  is  now  himself  the  pursued!  {Hellrtegel  brings  in  a  bucket 
full  of  snou\)  What  did  you  see  out  there,  Michael  ?  ^'ou  are  as  white 
as  a  sheet! 

Hfllriegel. —  I  did  not  know  what  it  was!  {tVhile  the  ice  is  being  laid 
on  Huhns  breast.)  It  isn't  the  old  mountain  with  the  forest  of  hair  that 
danced  and  jumped  around  with  you  in  the  tavern  and  from  whom  fortu- 
nately I  carried  you  off;  it  isn't  he  at  all. 

Pippa. —  Look  at  him  more  closely,  I  am  sure  it  is  he! 

fVann. —  But  he  has  become  our  brother! 

Pippa. —  Was  it  the  matter  with  you,  Michael  ?     How  you  do  look! 

fVann. —  What  did  you  see  outside  there  that  made  you  as  white  as 
a  sheet  ? 

Hellriegel. — W'ell,  for  all  I  care:  I  saw  pretty  little  things!  It  was, 
so  to  speak,  like  a  wall  of  snapping,  fishmouthed  women's  visages,  pretty 
terrifying,  pretty  dreadful!  I  wouldn't  like  to  have  them  here  in  the  room. 
That's  the  way,  w^hen  you  go  from  a  bright  light  into  the  dark!  — 

fVann. —  You  will  yet  learn  shivering! 

Hellriegel. —  At  all  events,  it  is  no  pleasure  to  be  outside  there.  Ap- 
parently the  ladies  have  sore  throats  —  you  see  it  in  their  swollen,  twitching, 
violet-black  throats!  And  for  what  other  reason  were  their  necks  wound 
round  with  a  thick  neckerchief  of  long,  slavering  worms! 

fVann. —  Pshaw,  Michael,  you  are  looking  around  for  protection! 

Hellriegel. —  If  only  those  tricksy  little  angels  don't  squeeze  through 
the  wall! 

JVann. —  Michael,  couldn't  you  go  out  of  doors  once  more,  and  call 
into  the  dark  in  a  loud  voice,  that  he  is  to  come  ? 

Hellriegel. —  No!     That's  going  too  far  for  me,  I  won't  do  that! 

fVann. —  You  are  afraid  of  the  lightning  that  is  to  save  ?  Then  prepare 
yourself  to  hear  God's  praise  howled  in  a  manner  to  freeze  the  marrow  in 
your  bones,  since  not  otherwise  is  the  invasion  of  the  pack  to  be  prevented! 

{Such  a  shriek  of  pain  comes  from  old  Huhn  that  Pippa  and  Hellrtegel 
break  into  a  sympathetic  weeping  and,  carried  away  by  their  sympathy,  they 
impulsively  hasten  to  htm  to  bring  him  help.) 

Wann. —  No  hurry!  It  is  useless!  Here  is  no  pity!  Here  the  poi- 
sonous tooth  and  the  white-hot  wind  rage,  so  long  as  he  rages!  Here 
typhonic  powers  press  out  the  piercing  scream  of  torture,  the  torture  of 
frantic  recognition  of  God.  Blind,  without  compassion,  they  stamp  it 
out  of  the  soul  howling,  yet  speechless  with  horror. 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  333 

Hellriegel. —  Can't  you  relieve  him,  then,  old  man  ? 

Wann. —  Not  without  him  whom  you  do  not  choose  to  call. 

Pippa  {trembling). —  Why  is  he  so  stretched  on  the  rack?  I  have 
feared  him,  and  have  hated  him,  but  why  is  he  pursued  with  such  wrath 
and  merciless  hatred  ?  —  I  do  not  ask  it! 

Huhn. —  What  do  you  want?  Let  go!  Let  go!  Don't  strike  your 
fangs  into  my  neck!  Let  go!  Let  go!  Don't  tear  the  bones  from  out  my 
loins!  Don't  tear  my  body  open!  Don't  rend  me,  don't  rend  my  soul  in 
pieces! 

Hellriegel. —  Great  heavens !  What  if  this  should  be  a  trial  of  strength ; 
if  the  great  fish-blooded  one  thinks  to  impress  anyone  with  this  —  at  all 
events,  he  doesn't  impress  me!  or  at  most  only  with  his  force!  Has  he  no 
more  respect  for  his  creation,  or  can't  he  help  striking  something  low  and 
small  every  moment  ?  And  in  such  a  peculiar  way,  which  it  is  to  be  hoped 
is  not  the  only  fun  there  is  for  him  in  the  matter. 

Wann. —  The  principal  thing  now  is  really,  Michael,  that  one  of  us 
should  go  and  find  out  where  he,  whom  we  await  so  longingly,  is  staying. 
Your  talking,  you  know,  brings  us  no  further. 

Hellriegel. —  You  go  out!     I  shall  stay  here. 

Wann. —  Good!     {To  Pippa.)     But  don't  dance  with  him! 

Hellriegel. —  O  Heavens!  When  anyone  can  make  jests  in  such  a 
critical  situation,  what  is  one  to  say  to  such  a  disaster  ? 

Wann. —  Take  care  whom  you  trust!  At  all  events,  give  heed  to  the 
child!      {Wann  goes  out  through  the  hall.) 

Pippa. —  Oh,  if  we  were  only  away  from  here,  Michael! 

Hellriegel. —  I  have  wished  that  too!  God  be  thanked,  that  at  all 
events  we  are  now  at  the  top!  Tomorrow,  at  daybreak,  we  can  rush  down 
the  southern  slope  —  for  all  I  care,  we  can  go  on  sleds,  that  would  be  fine! 
Then  we  shall  be  out  of  this  region  of  foreigners  and  assassins  and  grunting 
baboons,  forever! 

Pippa. —  Oh,  if  he  only  wouldn't  scream  again! 

Hellriegel. —  Let  him  scream!  Even  if  he  does,  it  is  still  better  inside 
here:  the  silence  outside  screams  more  horribly. 

Huhn  {with  heavy  tongue). —  Murder!     Murder! 

Pippa. —  He  has  spoken  again!  1  believe  the  old  toy-dealer  has  injured 
him  in  some  way! 

Hellriegel. —  Cling  to  me!     Press  close  to  my  heart. 

Pippa. —  O  Michael,  you  pretend  to  be  so  calm,  and  your  heart  beats 
so  furiously! 

Hellriegel. —  Like  your  own! 


334  AND  PIPPA  DANCES 

Pippn. —  And  his!  I  hear  his  beating,  too!  How  hard  it  labors! 
It  seems  strained  to  tlie  utmost! 

Hellrtegcl. —  Is  it  that  ?     Is  it  really  a  heart  that  pounds  like  that  ? 

Pippa. —  What  else  can  it  be  ?  just  listen,  what  else  can  be  pounding 
like  that  ?  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  feel  it  all  through  me,  so  painfully — 
it  hurts  me  clear  down  to  the  tips  of  my  toes  —  at  every  stroke,  it  seems  as 
it  I  must  help  it. 

Hdlricgel. —  Look,  a  chest  like  a  cannibal's!  Doesn't  it  look  like 
a  bellows  all  covered  with  matted  red  hair  ?  And  as  if  it  ought  always  to  be 
blowing  something  like  a  small  forge  fire. 

Pippa. —  O,  how  the  poor  little  captive  bird  keeps  jumping  against 
his  ribs  in  its  fright!     Shall  I  lay  my  hand  on  him  for  a  minute,  Michael .? 

Hellncgel. —  You  have  my  permission!  There  can  be  nothing  in  all 
the  world  which  would  be  so  miraculously  effectual } 

Pippa  {laying  her  hand  on  Huhns  heart). —  I  hadn't  the  least  idea 
that  under  all  his  rags,  old  Huhn  was  as  white  as  a  young  girl!  — 

Hellriegel. —  There  you  see  it  does  work!  He  is  quieter  already! 
And  now  we  will  give  him  a  little  wine  besides,  so  that  he  may  meet  death 
sleeping  peacefully. 

[He  goes  to  the  table  to  pour  out  some  wine.  Pippa  allows  her  hand  to 
remain  on  Huhns  breast.) 

Huhn. —  Who  lays  her  little  hand  on  my  breast  ?  I  sat  within  my 
house  —  in  the  darkness  —  we  sat  in  the  darkness!  The  world  was  cold! 
Davlight  came  no  more,  the  morning  never  came!  We  sat  there  round 
a  cold  glass  furnace!  And  the  people  came  there,  yoop,  yoop — They 
came  there  from  far  away,  creeping  across  the  snow!  They  came  from  far 
awav  because  they  were  hungry:  they  wanted  to  have  a  little  bit  of  light 
on  their  tongues,  they  wanted  to  absorb  a  little  bit  of  warmth  into  their 
benumbed  bones!  It  is  true!  And  they  lay  around  the  glass-works  all 
night!  I  heard  them  groan;  I  heard  them  moan.  And  then  I  rose  and 
poked  around  in  the  ash  pits  —  all  at  once  there  arose  a  single  little  spark  — 
a  tiny  spark  arose  out  of  the  ashes!  O  Jesus,  what  shall  I  do  with  the 
little  spark  that  has  all  at  once  risen  again  out  of  the  ashes  .''  Shall  I  make 
you  a  servant,  little  spark,  shall  I  capture  you  ^  Shall  I  strike  at  you, 
little  spark  }     Shall  I  dance  with  you,  tiny  little  spark  "i 

Hellriegel. —  Say  yes,  say  yes,  don't  oppose  him!  But  tell  us,  you, 
the  rest  of  your  story!  Here,  first  take  a  swallow,  old  Mr.  What's-your- 
name!  Today,  you  —  tomorrow,  me!  We  will  hold  together,  because  in 
mv  inmost  heart,  I  too  am  something  of  a  snowbound,  ghostly  glass-maker. 

Huhn    {after   he   has   drunken). —  Blood!     Black    blood   tastes   good! 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  335 

But,  what  the^wise  man' makes,  I  make  too!  I  too  make  glass!  Oh  dear, 
yes,  what  is  there  that  I  haven't  brought  out  of  the  glass  furnaces!  Beads! 
Precious  stones!  Magnificent  goblets!  Ever  in  with  the  blowpipe  and 
one  blast  into  it!  Enough  of  that!  I  will  dance  with  you,  little  spark! 
Wait  a  moment:  I'll  start  up  my  furnace  again!  How  the  white  heat 
breaks  from  the  doors!  No  one  ever  comes  up  to  old  Huhn!  Did  you  see 
her  dancing  round  in  the  air  over  the  fire  ? 

Hellriegel. —  Whom  do  }-ou  mean  ? 

Huhn. —  Whom  ?  Who  would  it  be  ?  He  doesn't  know,  he  doesn't, 
that  the  girl  springs  from  the  glass  furnaces! 

Hellriegel  {chuckling). —  Just  listen,  Pippa,  you  spring  from  the  glass 
furnaces ! 

Pippa. —  Oh,  Michael,  I  feel  like  weeping. 

Huhn. —  Dance,  dance!  that  it  may  grow  a  little  lighter!  Go  here, 
go  there,  that  the  people  may  get  light!  Kindle  the  fire,  kindle  the  fire! 
We  will  go  to  work! 

Hellriegel. —  Just  listen!  When  such  an  opportunity  offers,  I  would 
really  like  to  join  you!  The  devil  take  me,  if  I  wouldn't,  and  not  with 
just  a  journeyman's  piece  of  work  — 

Huhn. —  We  stood  around  our  glass  furnaces  and  around  about  us  out 
of  the  starless  night  crept  fear!  {He  gasps  harder.)  Mice,  dogs,  beasts 
and  birds  crept  into  the  fire.  It  grew  smaller  and  smaller  and  was  going 
out!  We  said  to  each  other  and  said  constantly  —  O  Jesus,  the  terror 
of  it  —  into  the  little  fire!  Then  it  fell  apart!  Then  we  screamed!  A 
little  blue  light  came  again!  Then  we  screamed  again!  And  then  it  was 
out!  I  sat  in  mv  house,  over  my  cold  fire!  I  saw  nothing!  I  poked  around 
in  the  ashes!  All  at  once  a  little  spark  flew  up,  a  single  little  spark  flew 
up  in  front  of  me.     Shall  we  dance  again,  little  spark  .'' 

Pippa  {fleeing  to  Michael). —  Michael,  are  you  still  there.? 

Hellriegel. —  Yes,  of  course!  Do  you  think  that  Michael  is  inclined 
to  be  a  shirker  .'*  This  old  man,  however,  is  something  more  than  a  dis- 
charged glass-blower,  God  knows!  Just  see,  what  a  bloody,  agonizing 
spasm  is  shown  in  his  face! 

Pippa. —  And  how  his  heart  wrestles,  and  how  it  pounds! 

Hellriegel. —  Like  an  eternal  forge-dance  with  the  forge-hammer. 

Pippa. —  And  at  every  stroke,  I  feel  my  own  breast  tcnn  and  burned! 

Hellriegel. —  I  do  too!  I  feel  it  tremendously  through  all  my  bones, 
and  it  tugs  at  me  until  it  seems  I  must  work  and  pound  with  it! 

Pippn. —  Listen,  Michael,  it  seems  exactly  as  if  the  same  stroke  struck 
deep  down  and  knocked  on  the  earth. 


^^6  AND   PIPPA   DANCES 

Ht'Uriegel. —  ^\)u  are  rigln,  the  same  terrible  blow  of  the  forge-hammer 
strikes  ilcep  down! 

Huhn. —  Shall  I  dance  with  you,  little  spirit  ? 

{UtuItrgrounJ,  ihinulrrons  nunhlings.) 

Pippa. —  Michael,  did  you  hear  that  rumbling  underground  ? 

Htllrie'gil. —  No!  Come!  You  had  better  take  your  hand  away  from 
his  heart.  If  everything  is  going  to  rock,  and  the  earth  is  going  to  tremble 
and  we  are  going  to  shoot  out  like  an  involuntary  meteor,  who  knows 
whither  into  space,  then  it  is  certainly  better  for  us  to  clamp  ourselves 
together,  shortly,  into  an  indissoluble  knot.     I  am  only  joking! 

Pippa. —  Oh,  Michael,  don't  joke  now! 

Ht'Uricgc]. —  Tomorrow,  we  will  both  joke  about  this! 

Pippa. —  Do  you  know,  I  feel  almost  as  if  I  were  only  a  single  spark 
and  as  if  I  hovered  around,  lost  and  quite  alone,  in  endless  space! 

Hellriegel. —  A  dancing  star  in  the  heavens,  Pippa!  and  why  not.'' 

Pippa  {whispering). —  Michael,  Michael,  dance  with  me!  Hold  me 
fast,  Michael,  I  don't  want  to  dance!     Michael,  Michael,  dance  with  me! 

Hellnegcl. —  I  will  do  it,  so  help  me  God,  as  soon  as  we  are  out  of  this 
scrape!  Think  of  something  beautiful!  As  soon  as  this  night  is  over, 
I  have  promised  mvself:  that  from  then  on,  you  shall  walk  only  on  roses 
and  tapestries.  And  we  shall  laugh,  as  soon  as  we  are  down  there,  in  the 
little  water-palace  —  we  shall  go  there,  I  assure  you — and  then  I  shall  lay 
you  in  your  little  silken  bed  ■ —  and  then  I  shall  bring  you  sweetmeats  all 
the  time  —  and  then  I  shall  cover  you  up  and  tell  you  creepy  stories  — 
and  then  you  will  burst  out  laughing,  so  sweetly,  that  the  delicious  sound 
will  be  pain  to  me.  And  then  you  w^ill  sleep,  and  I  shall  play  all  night  long, 
softly,  softly,  on  a  glass  harp. 

P//?/?fl.— Michael! 

Hellriegel. —  Yes,  Pippa! 

Pippa. —  Where  are  you  r 

Hellriegel. —  Here  beside  you!     I  hold  you  tightly  clasped! 

Huhn. —  Shall  we  dance  again,  little  spirit  .'* 

Pippa. —  Hold  me,  Michael  —  don't  let  me  go!  He  drags  me  to 
him!  —  I  am  being  dragged!  If  you  let  me  go  I  must  dance!  I  must 
dance!  —  or  else  I  shall  die!     Let  me  go! 

Hellriegel. —  Really  }  Well,  I  think  it  will  be  well,  in  the  midst  of  all 
these,  in  a  way  really  nightmarish  things,  to  bethink  myself  of  my  brave 
old  Swabian  blood!  If  all  your  limbs  twitch  to  do  it,  why  shouldn't  you 
dance  this  last  dance  with  a  poor  wretch  who  attaches  so  much  value  to 
your  doing  it  .^     In  my  opinion  there  can't  be  anything  so  bad  in  that.     Not 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  337 

for  nothing,  have  there  been  jolly  fellows  who  have  conjured  away  Satan's 
hell-fire  from  under  his  tail  and  lighted  their  pipes  with  it.  Why  shouldn't 
one  strike  up  a  tune  for  him  to  dance  ?  {He  takes  out  his  ocarina.)  Rum- 
pum-pum,  rum-pum-pum!  How  does  the  time  go?  Very  well,  for  all  I 
care,  get  ready  to  dance,  sweet  Pippa.  If  it  must  be — we  dare  not  be 
particular  about  the  place  and  the  hour  in  this  world!  {Trills  and  runs 
on  the  ocarina.)  Dance  away,  and  dance  till  you  are  tired!  It  is  far 
from  being  the  worst  thing  you  can  do :  to  be  joyous  with  one  who  is  mortally 
afflicted. 

{To  the  tones  of  the  ocarina,  which  Michael  plays ,  Pippa  makes  some 
slow,  painful  dance  movements,  that  have  something  convulsive  about  them. 
Little  by  little  the  dance  grows  wilder  and  more  bacchanalian.  A  rhythmic 
trembling  stirs  the  body  of  old  Huhn.  In  addition  to  this,  he  drums  frantically 
with  his  fists,  keeping  time  with  Pippa's  dance  rhythm.  At  the  same  time 
he  seems  to  be  shaken  by  a  terrible  chill,  like  some  one  coming  out  of  a  cutting 
wind  into  the  warmth.  From  the  depths  of  the  earth  muffled  sounds  force 
their  way  up:  rumblings  of  thunder,  triangles,  cymbals  and  kettle-drums. 
Finally  Wann  enters  through  the  hall  door.) 

Huhn. —  I  am  making  a  little  glass!  I  am  making  it.  {Fastening 
a  look  of  hate  on  Wann.)  I  shall  make  it  and  knock  it  to  pieces  again! 
Come  —  with  —  we  —  into  —  the  dark  —  little  spark.  {He  crushes  the 
drinking  glass  which  he  still  holds  in  his  hand,  and  the  pieces  clatter  to  the 
floor.) 

{Pippa  shivers  and  then  grows  suddenly  rigid.) 

Pippa. —  Michael! 

{She  reels  and  Wann  catches  her  in  his  arms.      She  is  dead.) 

Wann. —  Have  you  achieved  your  purpose  in  spite  of  me,  old  corybant .? 

Hellriegel  {stops  playing  on  his  ocarina  for  a  few  seconds). —  Good! 
Stop  a  moment  to  get  your  breath,  Pippa! 

Huhn  (with  an  effort,  looks  Wann  full  in  the  eyes,  triumphantly.  Then 
there  comes  from  his  lips  ivith  difficulty,  but  powerfully,  the  call) —  Jumalai !  !  ! 
{Immediately  after  it  he  sinks  back  and  dies.) 

Hellriegel  (is  about  to  begin  playing  on  his  ocarina  again). —  What 
was  that.'*  I  have  it!  I  heard  that  cry,  yesterday  morning!  What  do 
you  say  to  that,  old  wizard  ?  But  anyhow,  it  is  well  that  you  have  come, 
for  othenvise  we  would  have  galloped  away,  over  knives  and  pieces  of 
broken  glass  into  the  unknown,  on  and  on,  who  knows  where!  Have  you 
found  him  at  last .'' 

Wann. —  Most  certainly! 

Hellriegel  (after  a  trill). —  Well,  where  did  you  find  him  .? 


338  AND   PIPPA  DANCES 

lyann.  "^  1  tound  him  behind  a  snow-drift.  He  was  tired.  He  said 
his  load  of  work,  was  too  enormous.  I  had  to  persuade  him  a  long  while. 
{Looking  down  on  Pippa.)     And  now  it  seems  that  he  misunderstood  me. 

Hellrii'gel  {after  a  trill). —  But  at  least  he  is  coming  now.'' 

tVann. —  Didn't  you  see  him  ?     He  came  in  just  before  me! 

Hellriegel. —  I  didn't  see  anything,  to  be  sure,  but  I  felt  something 
when  the  old  man  yelled  out  his  silly  foreign  word,  something  that  still 
hums  in  my  bones. 

Wann. —  Do  you  hear  the  echo  still  making  a  hubbub  outside  .'' 

Hellriegel  {goes  up  close  to  Huhn,  curiously). —  Truly!  The  old  cloven 
hoof  will  stamp  no  more.  I  must  say,  a  weight  has  fallen  from  my  soul! 
I  hope  that  at  last  the  old  hippopotamus  is  in  a  safe  place.  Tell  me,  you 
probably  injured  his  backbone  for  him,  didn't  you  ?  But  perhaps  that 
wasn't  really  necessary,  although  it  is  possible  that  it  may  have  saved  us. 

Wann. —  Yes,  Michael,  if  you  are  saved,  it  would  certainly  have  been 
difficult  to  accomplish  it  in  any  other  way. 

Hellriegel. —  Yes,  thank  God,  I  feel  that  we  are  over  the  worst  of  it. 
For  that  reason  I  won't  mope  any  longer  because  the  old  man  —  he  is 
really  past  the  time  for  boyish  tricks!  —  because  the  old  man  has  died 
of  his  love  affair,  and  can  not  have  what  I  possess.  Every  man  for  himself 
and  God  for  us  all!  In  what  way  does  the  affair  concern  me  after  all! 
Pippa!  !  How  does  it  happen  that  you  have  two  lights  to  the  right  and  left 
of  you,  one  on  each  shoulder } 

Wann  {with  Pippa  in  his  arms). —  Ecce  deus  fortior  me,  qui  veniens 
dominabitur  mihi!  {Behold  a  god  stronger  than  I,  who  when  he  comes 
will  have  dominion  over  me!) 

Hellriegel. —  I  don't  understand  that!  {With  his  head  bent  forward 
he  gazes  searchingly  for  a  few  seconds  at  Pippa  as  she  lies  in  fVanns  arms.) 
Oh,  now  something  tugs  so  as  my  breast  again,  now  I  am  again  shaken 
with  impatience,  so  painfully  sweet  that  it  seems  as  if  I  must  be  at  the 
same  time  here  on  this  spot  and  millions  of  years  away.  Everything  is 
rosv-red  round  about  me!  {He  plays,  then  interrupts  himself  and  says) 
Dance,  child!  Rejoice!  Rejoice,  for  with  the  help  of  the  never-ceasing 
light  in  mv  breast,  we  have  found  the  way  through  the  gloomy  labyrinth, 
and  when  you  have  tired  of  leaping  and  feel  calm  in  the  certainty  of  happi- 
ness, then  we  will  immediately  {to  fVann)  with  your  permission,  glide 
down  over  the  clear  snow,  at  if  we  went  by  post,  into  spring's  ravine,  down 
there. 

fVann. —  Yes,  if  you  see  spring's  ravine  down  there,  good  Michael, 
certainly! 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN  339 

Hellriegel  {with  the  motions  of  a  blind  man  who  sees  only  what  is  within 
himself;  standing  at  the  pitch-dark  ivindow). —  Ho,  I  see  it  well,  sprinc^'s 
ravine!  I  am  not  blind!  A  child  can  see  it!  From  your  cabin,  you  ancient 
inn-keeper,  you  can  overlook  the  v^^hole  land  —  for  a  distance  of  fifty  miles. 
I  absolutely  will  not  sit  here  any  longer,  like  the  spirit  in  the  glass  bottle, 
lying  corked  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  Once  upon  a  time — just  give  us 
the  golden  key  and  let  us  go  away! 

fVann. —  When  the  sun  shines  forth  suddenly  in  winter,  it  is  apt  to 
make  people  blind! 

Hellriegel. —  Or  give  them  the  all-seeing  eye!  I  could  almost  believe 
myself  in  a  dream:  so  mysteriously  am  I  charmed  by  the  mountains,  white 
in  the  light  of  the  morning's  flaming  splendor,  and  by  the  enchanting  haze 
over  the  peninsulas,  inlets  and  gardens  of  the  ravine,  and  really,  it  seems 
as  if  I  were  on  another  star! 

fVann. —  That's  the  way  it  always  is  when  the  mountains  are  bathed 
in  the  light  of  the  great  Pan's  games  with  the  fires  of  St.  Elmo. 

Hellriegel. —  Pippa! 

fVann. —  She  is  even  now,  again,  far  from  us  on  her  own  pilgrimage! 
And  he,  the  restless  barbarous  old  giant  is  again  pursuing  her.  {He  lays 
Pippa  down  on  the  bench.  Afterward  he  calls.)  Jonathan!  Again  the 
invisible  hand  that  reaches  through  walls  and  roofs  has  frustrated  my 
schemes  and  made  them  his  booty.  Jonathan!  He  is  even  now  cold! 
The  glowing  crater  is  extinguished.  What  does  the  hunter  hunt.?  It  is 
not  the  animal  that  he  slays!  What  does  the  hunter  hunt .?  Who  can  answer 
me  .? 

Hellriegel  {at  the  black  window). —  Pippa,  just  look  down  there,  the 
tongues  of  land  are  covered  with  golden  cupolas  —  and  do  you  see:  there 
is  our  water-palace  —  and  the  golden  steps  that  lead  up  to  it! 

fVann. —  Then  rejoice!  Rejoice  over  what  you  see,  Michael,  and  over 
what  is  hidden  from  you! 

Hellriegel. —  The  sea!  Oh,  there  is  another,  upper  sea  forming:  this 
other  sea  gives  back  to  the  lower  sea  millions  of  twinkling  stars!  O  Pippa  — 
and  look,  still  a  third  sea  forms!  There  is  an  infinite  mirroring  and  immer- 
sion of  light  in  light!  We  swim  through  it  all,  between  ocean  and  ocean, 
on  our  rusthng  gf)ld  galley! 

fVann. —  Then,  of  course,  you  will  no  longer  need  my  little  vessel! 
Throw  back  the  shutters,   Jonathan! 

{Jonathan,  who  has  looked  ni,  opens  the  house  door  and  the  first  faint 
gleam  of  morning  comes  in  through  the  hall.) 

Hellriegel. —  Pippa ! 


340  AND   PIPPA   DANCES 

ff'ann. —  Here  she  is,  take  each  other's  hands!  {He goes  up  to  Michael^ 
uho  IS  standing  with  the  expression  of  a  blind  seer  on  his  face,  and  makes 
motions  as  if  Pip  pa  stood  near  him  and  as  if  he  laid  Michael' s  hand  in  hers.) 
There!  I  marr)'  you!  I  marry  you  to  this  shadow!  He  who  is  married 
to  shadows  marries  you  to  this  one! 

Hellriegel. —  Not  bad,  Pippa,  you  are  a  shadow! 

Wann. —  Go  forth,  go  out  with  her  into  the  wide  world  —  to  your 
water-palace,  I  meant  to  say!  And  here  you  have  the  key  to  it!  That 
monster  can  no  longer  prevent  your  entering!  And  outside  a  sleigh  with 
two  curved  horns  stands  ready  — 

Hellriegel  {with  great  tears  on  his  cheeks). —  And  there  I  shall  make 
water  into  balls! 

Wann. —  Vou  are  doing  it  now  with  your  eyes!  Now  go!  Don't 
forget  your  ocarina! 

Hellriegel. —  O  no!     I  shall  not  forget  my  sweet,  beloved  little  wife! 

fVann. —  For  it  may  yet  be  possible,  that  sometime  you  will  have  to 
plav  and  sing  here  and  there  before  people's  doors.  But  don't  lose  your 
courage  because  of  that.  For  in  the  first  place,  you  have  the  little  key  to 
the  palace,  and  when  it  growls  dark,  you  have  this  torch  which  Pippa  may 
carr>'  on  before  you;  and  then  you  will  surely  and  certainly  come  to  the 
place  where  joy  and  peace  await  you.  Only  sing  and  play  bravely  and  do 
not  despair. 

Hellriegel. —  Hurrah!     I  sing  the  song  of  the  blind! 

Wann. —  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ? 

Hellriegel. —  I  sing  the  song  of  the  blind  people  who  do  not  see  the 
great  golden  stairs! 

Wann. —  So  much  the  higher  will  you  mount  the  scala  d'oro,  the  scala 
dei  Giganti! 

Hellriegel. —  And  I  sing  the  song  of  the  deaf! 

Wann. —  Those  who  do  not  hear  the  stream  of  the  universe  flowing! 

Hellriegel. —  Yes! 

Wann. —  Be  sure  you  do  it!  But,  Michael,  when  they  are  not  touched 
and  when  they  threaten  you  with  hard  words  or  with  stone-throwing,  which 
is  pretty  sure  to  happen,  then  tell  them  how  rich  you  are  —  a  prince  on 
a  journey  with  his  princess!  Talk  to  them  of  your  water-palace  and  beg 
them  for  God's  sake  to  direct  you  to  the  next  milestone  on  your  road! 

Hellriegel  {chuckling). —  And  Pippa  shall  dance! 

Wann. —  And  Pippa  dances! 

(//  has  noiv  become  broad  daylight.  Wann  puts  a  cane  into  the  hand 
of  the  blind  and  helpless  Michael,  puts  his  hat  on  and  leads  him  to  the  outside 


GERHART   HAUPTMANN  341 

door,  feeling  his  way,  but  chuckling  softly  and  happily.  Now  Michael  puis 
the  ocarina  to  his  mouth  and  plays  a  heart-hreakingly  sad  melody.  In  the 
hall,  Jonathan  takes  charge  of  the  blind  man  and  fVann  comes  back.  He 
listens  to  the  ocarina,  as  the  melody  dies  away  farther  and  farther  into  the 
distance,  takes  the  little  gondola  from  the  table,  looks  at  it  and  says  with 
pained  renunciation  in  his  tones). — 

Sail  away,  sail  away,  little  gondoletta! 


THE  LITERATURE    OF    PORTUGAL 

By  Isabel  Moore 

I 

SINCE  the  time  of  Robert  Southey  almost  no  attention  has  been 
paid  to  the  hterature  of  Portugal.  Yet  Portugal,  the  'medulla 
Hispanica'  (marrow  of  Spain,  as  it  has  been  called)  has  not 
only  a  vast  but  an  exceedingly  beautiful  literature,  entirely 
distinctive  from  the  Spanish  of  which  it  is  so  often  and  erro- 
neously considered  a  part.  Like  the  country  itself,  the  liter- 
ature has  been  peculiarly  insecure  and  yet  peculiarly  lasting. 

Long,  long  ago  —  when  the  Spanish  Peninsular  was  in  the  making  — 
a  certain  Alfonso,  ruler  of  Leon,  conquered  his  brothers,  Garcia  of  Galicia 
and  Coimbra,  and  Sancho  of  Castile,  and  was  himself  crowned  king  of 
Castile,  Leon,  Galicia  and  Coimbra.  His  father  was  Don  Fernando  who 
conferred  the  honor  of  knighthood,  in  the  great  Mosque  of  Coimbra,  upon 
Rodrigo  Diaz  de  Bivar,  the  redoutable  Cid,  Champion  of  Christendom 
and  hero  of  Spanish  Mediaeval  history.  And  Alfonso  —  after  he  had 
adjusted  his  domestic  supremacy  to  his  liking  —  had  proceeded  to  the 
conflict  against  his  religious  and  territorial  foes,  the  Moors,  who,  since  the 
defeat  of  Roderick  the  Goth  in  the  Battle  of  the  Guadelette,  had  ravaged 
the  Peninsular.  He  was  successful  to  the  extent  of  winning  Santarem  and 
Lisbon  from  the  Lusitanian  Moors,  but  was  finally  in  such  straits  and  met 
with  such  crushing  reverses  that  he  called  upon  other  Christian  princes  to 
help  him.  Among  those  to  respond,  was  Count  Henry  of  Burgundy,  to 
whom  Alfonso  gave  the  countries  of  Oporto  and  Coimbra  in  1095  as  a  reward 
for  his  services  and  assistance.  And  with  this  grant  of  lands  began  the 
Kingdom  of  Portugal. 

Alfonso  Henriques,  the  first  King  of  Portugal,  was  the  son  of  this 
French  Prince;  and  the  establishment  of  a  Burgundian  dynasty  introduced 
French  words  into  the  Coimbrian  dialect,  such  as  never  found  their  way 
into  the  Galician:  —  although,  in  the  main,  the  dialects  remained  for  a  long 
time  practically  the  same.  It  was  only  in  Coimbra,  however,  after  it  became 
an  integral  part  of  Portugal,  that  there  was  a  Court;  and,  therefore,  it  was 
in  Coimbra  that  the  common  dialect  acquired  a  separate  and  distinctive 
literature:  taking  precedence  and  wielding  together  the  different  elements 
that  went  to  the  forming  of  the  Portuguese  national  language. 

342 


ISABEL   MOORE  343 

Though,  until  the  existence  of  Portugal  as  a  nation,  we  cannot  consider 
her  literature  as  separated  from  the  Castilian,  there  is  every  probability 
that  songs  were  sung  in  the  Portuguese  dialect  long  before  they  were  in  the 
Castilian.  The  oldest  Portuguese  poetry  of  which  we  have  authentic 
record,  however,  are  three  curious  fragments  given  by  Manuel  de  Faria, 
by  Sousa  in  his  Europe  Portuguese,  written  by  Gonzalo  Hermiguez  and 
Egaz  Moniz  Coelho;  two  poets  who  are  said  to  have  lived  during  the  reign 
of  Alfonso  Henriques,  although  some  authorities  maintain  they  came  a  little 
later.  Ticknor,  however,  is  confident  that  their  verse  can  not  be  placed 
later  than  1200,  and  says:  'Both  show  that  the  Galician  in  Portugal,  under 
less  favorable  circumstances  than  those  which  accompanied  the  Castilian 
in  Spain,  rose  at  the  same  period  to  be  a  written  language  and  possessed, 
perhaps  quite  as  early,  the  materials  for  forming  an  independent  literature.' 
Alfonso  Henriques,  himself,  was  a  poet  as  well  as  an  able  ruler,  though 
none  of  his  verse  has  survived  for  our  estimation;  and  Spain  and  Portugal 
have  in  common  the  still  extant  fragment  of  a  poem  said  to  have  been  found 
in  1 187,  in  a  condition  so  injured  by  time  that  little  more  than  thirty  lines 
were  legible,  ascribed  to  Roderick  the  Last  of  the  Goths:  —  coeval,  then, 
with  the  Arab  conquest  of  the  Peninsular  in  the  beginning  of  the  eighth 
century. 

It  is  a  cause  for  wonder  that  Arabian  poetry  left  no  more  trace  than  it 
seems  to  have  done  on  Spanish  versification,  and  no  trace  at  all  —  that  is 
descernible  in  our  day,  at  least  —  on  the  Portuguese.  Probably  it  enriched 
the  Peninsular  dialects  somewhat  but,  apparently,  not  much.  It  has  been 
claimed  that  the  Spanish  ballads  are  imitations  of  the  Arabian;  and,  of 
course,  as  it  was  inevitable  that  there  should  be,  there  were  many  Spanish 
border  ballads  concerned  with  Moorish-Spanish  international  episodes  and 
incidents.  But  this  was  more  particularly  the  case  after  the  Fall  of  Grenada, 
when  cause  for  rejoicing  over  a  vanquished  foe  most  naturally  found 
expression.  That  there  was  little  interchange  of  imitation  is  readily  proved 
by  the  internal  simplicity  of  each.  The  Spanish  ballads,  particularly,  are 
so  simple  in  form  and  so  direct  in  feeling  that  they  could  hardly  be  anything 
but  the  almost  personal  result  of  a  popular  need.  Furthermore,  it  is  easy 
to  believe  that  a  chivalrous  and  energetic  people  would  naturally  evolve 
their  own  ballad  expression  as  they  would  their  own  architectural  or  political 
expression;  and  the  evidence  to  corroborate  this  natural  belief  is  the  fact 
that  not  one  single  Arabic  original  has  been  found  in  the  great  mass  of 
Spanish  ballads.  Alrliougli  Arabian  j^oetry  is  almost  entirely  lyrical  — 
and  the  lyrical  aj^peal  was  peculiarly  poignant  to  the  early  Spanish,  and 
is  to  the  Portuguese  of  all  tiim        each  nation  held  to  a  most  ardent  appre- 


344  THE   LITERATURE  OF   PORTUGAL 

elation  of  the  heaut^•  of  its  own  speeeh.  This  was,  douhtless,  a  most 
desirable  state  of  affairs,  eontributing  to  the  consolidation  of  what  may  be 
called  national  individualism  in  the  poetry  of  Spain  and  Portugal;  yet  we 
cannot  but  regret  to  a  degree  that  such  a  delightful  possession  of  the  Arabs, 
for  example,  as  the  'trembling  meter' — iambics,  rhyming  in  the  same 
syllable  throughout:  a  measure  which,  according  to  the  Arabs,  resembles 
the  trot  c^f  a  camel  —  found  no  place  in  either  Spanish  or  Portuguese  verse. 
'The  beautiful  poetry  with  which  Allah  has  adorned  the  Muslim'  is  a  thing 
apart;  requiring  independent  appreciation  and  consideration. 

The  twelfth  century  has  been  likened  unto  a  dusky  dawn  in  which 
could  be  heard  a  few-  twittering  birds  that  have  awakened  before  their  mates. 
There  had  come  into  existence  what  has  been  called  'a  state  of  European 
consciousness.'  All  civilized  Europe  awoke,  and  every  creature  proceeded 
to  produce  after  his  kind.  The  Troubadour  movement  was  the  first 
symmetrical  expression  in  Art  of  Chivalry — that  adventurous  service  of  God 
and  woman  —  as  the  Crusades  were  its  first  expression  in  action.  Love  of 
external  nature,  elemental  emotion,  simple  sentiment,  were  the  well-springs 
of  their  lyric  utterance;  bubbling  up  into  being  from  long-hidden,  tranquil 
depths  of  feeling.  And,  as  the  Romance  languages  —  composed  of  the 
Latin  and  the  Teutonic  tongues  —  in  the  first  place  all  sprang  from  popular 
and  not  from  classic  Latin,  so,  likewise,  in  turn,  the  Troubadours  found 
their  expression  in  the  homely  speech  of  the  common  people  after  the  bar- 
baric invasions  had  led  to  the  complete  destruction  of  the  Latin  culture. 
'  They  rank, '  writes  one  modern  critic,  '  in  the  scale  between  music  and  usual 
verse.'  And,  again:  'Their  words  are  like  musical  notes,  not  so  much  signs 
of  thought  as  symbols  of  feeling,  which  almost  defy  an  arbitrary  interpre- 
tation and  must  be  rendered  in  part  by  the  temperament  of  the  performer.' 

That  was  it:  —  the  Troubadours  were  the  temperamental  element  of 
their  age,  whether  of  noble  birth  or  of  humble  origin.  St.  Francis  of  Assisi 
himself,  the  typical  saint  of  the  Middle  Ages,  was  at  heart  a  bit  of  a  tempera- 
mental tramp  as  he  went  from  village  to  village  with  a  number  of  friars, 
singing  the  Canticle  of  the  Sun.  Most  truly  did  William  of  Poitiers  —  the 
reputed  father  of  Provencal  song  —  express  the  impulse  of  the  day  in  his 
verse  beginning: 

'Desire  of  song  hath  taken  me!' 

'Desire  of  song,' — yea,  verily.  And  the  'desire'  would  not,  could 
not,  be  denied.  It  found  its  voice,  first  of  all  and  for  the  longest  period, 
in  fair  Provence,  that  'home  of  song,'  where  from  1 194-1209  the  Court  of 
Raimon  VI  of  Toulouse  was  thronged  with  poets.  It  flourished  in  France 
from  1080  on.      Alfonso  II  of  Arragon,  who  died  in  Portugal  while  trying 


ISABEL  MOORE  345 

to  arrange  a  general  league  against  the  Moors,  was  the  Troubadour-King 
in  whose  reign  Troubadour  poetry  reached  its  finest  outburst  in  Arragon. 
Alfonso  X  of  Castile  was  a  devoted  patron  of  the  Gaya  Sciencia.  His 
Cantigas  in  honor  of  the  Madonna  —  strange  minglings  with  regard  to  the 
All-Mother  of  the  original  Pagan  and  overlaid  Christianity  —  we  still  have 
to  the  number  of  four  hundred  and  one.  They  are  in  the  Galician  dialect, 
bearing  somewhat  the  impress  of  the  Provencal,  and  are  the  oldest  extant 
specimens  of  Galician  verse  as  distinct  from  the  Portuguese  with,  possibly, 
the  exception  of  the  ballad  called  'The  Fight  of  the  Figwood.' 

It  has  been  said  that  Portugal  did  not,  strictly  speaking,  belong  to  the 
Troubadour  world,  and  it  is  true  that  the  name  and  poem  of  only  one 
undoubtedly  Portuguese  Troubadour  of  the  earliest  period  has  survived  — 
Joao  de  Penda  ( 1 145-1204).  But,  although  the  individual  record  is  meager, 
Portugal  in  reality  became  even  more  Provencal  that  Castile,  lor  in  Castile 
there  soon  sprang  up  a  strong  French  influence.  The  Troubadours  — 
most  of  them  —  spent  their  lives  visiting  different  Courts,  and  the  Court  of 
Portugal  was  so  pleasant  and  welcoming  that  they  frequently  lingered  there 
for  a  long  time.  Of  these  wandering  minstrels  who  reached  Portugal, 
the  French  Marcabrun  is  the  most  famous  of  this  early  period.  He  visited 
Portugal  in  1147,  while  Alfonso  Henriques  was  in  the  prime  of  his  glory, 
and  is  said  to  have  been  the  first  of  the  French  Troubadours  to  cross  the 
Pyrenees.  The  similarity  in  the  literary  languages  of  Castile  and  Portugal 
undoubtedly  led  to  considerable  intercourse  between  the  two  countries,  and 
it  is  on  record  that  the  later  Portuguese  Troubadours,  Pero  Gomez  Barroso, 
Payo  Gomez  Charrinho  and  Concalo  Fames  do  Vidal,  were  received  with 
honors  at  the  Castilian  Court.  Among  the  Galician  poets  who  frequented 
the  Court  of  Portugal  during  the  reign  of  Sancho  I  ( 1 1 85- 1 2 1 1 )  were  Alfonso 
Gomez,  Fernam  Con^alves  de  Senabria  and  Joao  Soares  de  Paiva;  whose 
famous  Provencal  rivals  were  Peire  Valeria,  Gavandan  o  Velho  and  Peire 
Vidal,  —  the  Peire  Vidal  of  whom  it  was  said  that  'he  was  the  best  singer 
in[the  world  and  a  good  finder;  and  that  he  was  the  most  foolish  man  in  the 
world  because  he  thought  everything  tiresome  except  verse.'  And  it  is 
interesting  evidence  of  the  community  of  feeling  in  the  Troubadour  world 
to  remember  that  Bonifaci  Calvo,  a  Troubadour  of  Genoa,  lived  at  the 
Castilian  Court  for  a  long  period,  and  that  two  of  his  seventeen  extant  poems 
are  in  the  Portuguese  language;  and  that  another  Italian,  Sordel  —  Brown- 
ing's Sordello  —  visited  the  Courts  of  the  Peninsluar  in  1260,  meeting 
everywhere  with  courteous  welcome.  In  Portugal  he  gained  an  honor 
accorded  no  other  foreign  troubadour:  —  a  place  in  their  song  books. 
'As  much  —  no  more       one  lives  as  one  enjoys,'  he  sang. 


346  THE   LITERATURE   OF   PORTUGAL 

It  is  quite  possible  that  the  Portuguese  preceded  the  Castihans  in  epic 
or  heroic  poetry  as  well  as  in  lyric  verse.  An  earlier  Castilian  Alfonso  than 
he  of  the  Cantigas  —  Alfonso  III  —  had  fostered  the  Franco-Proven9al 
school  in  his  kingdom  bv  bringing  with  him  from  France,  Trouveres  as  well 
as  Troubadours.  Among  these  was  Alfonso  Lopez  de  Bayan,  who  wrote 
the  first  gesta  in  the  Portuguese  language,  a  gesta  de  Maldizer.  But,  although 
such  names  as  Rodriguez  Lobo,  Eloi  de  Sa  Sotonayor  and  Pires  de  Rebello — 
of  a  little  later  day  —  made  this  form  of  verse  illustrious,  the  heroic  romance 
never  became  thoroughly  naturalized  in  Portugal  and  chiefly  found  its  way 
through  Spain.  Narrative  romance  never  seems  to  have  been  so  esteemed 
by  the  Portuguese  as  by  their  Castilian  neighbors. 

In  1208  came  the  Albigensian  Crusade  in  which  Folquet  de  Marseilla, 
himself  once  a  Troubadour  but  since  become  Abbott  of  La  Thoronet, 
assisted  Simon  de  Montfort  against  Toulouse  in  the  siege  that  resulted  in 
the  decisive  battle  of  1213  in  which  the  Midi  were  conquered.  'The  stream 
must  fall  into  the  sea,'  as  Mistral  sang  of  this  event.  Tides  of  fugitives  fled 
beyond  the  Pyrenees.  Echoes  of  the  Troubadour  world  reverberated  the 
length  of  Castile  and  Galicia  and  Portugal.  Spain  —  used  in  a  generic 
sense  —  was  their  refuge  and  their  dream.  The  Court  of  Dom  Sancho  II 
of  Portugal,  particularly,  was  filled  with  gay  and  young  knights  and  trou- 
badours who  had  been  under  the  most  direct  Provencal  influence. 

But  the  times  were  rapidly  changing:  the  old  order  giving  place  to 
the  new.  Men's  ideas  were  expanding  and  becoming  big  with  other  plans 
that  found  expression  in  other  forms.  Dante,  when  he  came,  was  a  typical 
troubadour  spiritualized.  ///  Paradiso  is  the  culmination  of  the  troubadour 
feeling,  as  in  Boccacio  culminated  the  art  of  the  Trouveres.  Yet,  though 
the  troubadour  spirit  has  now  become  itself  a  fugitive,  there  are  even  unto 
this  day  survivals  and  even  revivals,  and  will  ever  be,  so  long  as  lyric  poetry 
lives  in  human  hearts:  lyric  poetry  being  the  very  quintessence  of  human 
sympathy  and  love  and  hope  and  the  joy  of  life  and  the  worship  of  nature. 
No  matter  that  it  only  lingers  in  the  secret  places:  that  the  form  is  changed: 
that  it  is  overshadowed  by  the  big  worldly  things  of  men.  It  is  with  the 
troubadour  spirit,  as  found  among  the  folk-tales  and  folk-songs  of  a  people, 
as  it  was  with  the  little  maid  in  the  old  Portuguese  folk-tale,  who  sings: 
*  Prince  of  love, 

I  have  come  many  leagues 

To  see  thee,  O  my  Lord! 

My  shoes  are  torn: 

My  staff  is  travel-worn ; 

Yet  here  I  am  come  back  to  thee!' 


ISABEL   MOORE  347 

II 

The  Kingdom  of  Portugal  was,  however,  rather  to  one  side  of  the  track 
of  change  and  the  old  spirit  lingered  there  for  some  time  after  the  reign  of 
Sancho  II,  although  with  the  passing  of  the  thirteenth  century  the  pohtical 
conditions  changed  entirely  from  a  period  of  war  and  territorial  expansion 
to  one  of  consolidation,  preluding  the  Idade  d'Ouro  of  heroic  exploration 
and  Asiatic  conquest.  It  was  a  certain  poised  period:  a  stopping  to  take 
breath  before  a  new  and  vigorous  burst  of  enterprise:  a  lying  fallow  unto 
the  end  of  renewed  life  and  activity. 

During  the  fourteenth  century  there  were  hardly  any  writers  of  verse 
in  Portugal  except  members  of  the  royal  family;  and  of  these,  by  far  the 
most  illustrious  was  the  earhest,  Dom  Dinez  (1279-1325)  'Brave  Dinez'as 
Camoens  called  him.  He  was  a  lover  of  letters  and  a  true  poet,  promoting 
the  literature  of  his  country  in  much  the  same  fashion  as  did  his  contempo- 
rary, Alfonso  X,  that  of  Castile.  Not  only  did  he  found  the  great  University 
that  afterwards  moved  from  Lisbon  to  Coimbra,  but  he  and  his  poetic 
courtiers  developed  the  Portuguese  dialect  into  a  beautiful  and  flexible 
literary^  language.  His  own  verse  shows  the  influence  of  the  Troubadours 
rather  than  that  of  the  Trouveres  who  had  come  into  evidence  at  his  father's 
Court:  but,  as  time  went  on,  he  more  and  more  threw  off^  the  trammels  of 
the  Provencal  forms  and,  perceiving  the  beauty  of  his  people's  lyrics,  wrote 
some  quaint  and  graceful  '  Pastorellas'  in  which  —  as  in  almost  all  pastoral 
poetry  —  the  buccolic  touch  is  easily  conformable  to  the  primitive  rehgious 
feeling  of  the  people.  The  poems  of  Dom  Dinez  are  to  be  found  only  in  old 
manuscripts.  They  are  collected  into  Cancioneiros,  two  in  number,  the 
first  containing  his  Cantigas  to  the  Virgin  —  another  touch  in  common  with 
his  Castilian  contemporary  —  and  the  second  his  temporal  works. 

Besides  Dom  Dinez,  of  the  royal  poets,  his  son,  Alfonzo  IV,  wrote  verse 
that  has  never  been  printed,  and  the  sonnet  in  praise  of  Vasco  de  Lobeira 
is  said  to  have  been  written  by  him,  although  some  authorities  attribute  it 
to  Pedro,  the  son  of  John  the  Great.  This  Lobeira  deserves  particular 
mention  because  there  is  little  doubt  that  he  gave  to  the  literary  world  the 
first  version  of  Amadis  of  Gaul,  though  the  earliest  version  we  now  have  is 
the  Spanish  of  Garci-Ordonez  de  Montalvo  which  was  written  about  1495. 
There  is  proof  that  the  story  of  Amadis  existed  as  early  as  1325  and,  until 
the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century-,  a  manuscript  copy  of  Lobcira's  work  was 
in  the  possession  of  the  Dukes  of  Aveiro  at  Lisbon.  It  was  probably  in 
verse,  but  this  is  not  known  with  certainty  and  it  has  been  lost  sight  ot  since 
the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century.     Rather  curiously,  the  last  of  the  line 


348  THE   LITERATURE  OF   PORTUGAL 

of  the  .hnnJis  romances,  as  well  as  the  first,  is  attributed  to  a  Portuguese  and 
was  entitled  '  Penalava.'  It  is  supposed  to  have  dealt  with  the  last  exploits 
and  death  of  Lisuarte,  King  of  Greece;  but,  if  it  ever  really  existed,  no  copy 
of  it  seems  ever  to  have  been  seen. 

The  second  series  of  great  Spanish  romances  —  that  of  the  Pal- 
merins— was  for  a  long  time  supposed  to  have  had  a  Portuguese  origin. 
This  was  an  error,  however,  arising  from  a  misunderstanding  of  a  state- 
ment on  the  part  of  its  translator  from  the  Spanish.  But  the  Seventh, 
Eighth  and  Ninth  (the  Ninth  being  the  last)  of  the  Palmerin  sequence  were 
written  by  Portuguese;  the  Eighth  and  Ninth  by  Balth;  Gon^alvez  Lobato, 
and  the  Seventh  (which  has  never  been  translated  into  any  other  language) 
by  Diogo  Fernandez. 

It  was  King  Alfonzo  IV  (1325-1357),  son  and  successor  of  Dom  Dinez, 
whose  forces,  united  with  those  of  Alfonzo  of  Castile,  won  the  great  victory 
over  the  Moors  in  the  battle  of  the  Salado  that  was  the  inspiration  of  the 
first  Portuguese  epic  by  Alfonzo  Giraldes,  the  forerunner  of  Camoens.  The 
year  1348  of  his  reign  was  marked  by  the  Black  Death;  and  the  next  to  the 
last  of  his  reign  by  the  tragedy  of  Inez  de  Castro,  which  has  been  the  subject 
of  manv  poems  in  many  tongues. 

The  whole  stor}-  of  Inez  de  Castro  is  one  of  fierce  passions  of  love  and 
hate,  of  cruelty  and  of  tenderness,  and  of  a  wild  disloyalty  that  was  superbly 
loyal.  She  was  a  Castilian  in  the  suite  of  Beatrice  of  Castile,  wife  of  Alfonzo 
IV,  with  whom  their  son,  Dom  Pedro,  fell  deeply  in  love.  Inez  became 
the  mistress  of  Pedro,  living  in  a  house  of  Coimbra,  of  which  a  few  ruined 
walls  are  all  that  now  remain.  Tradition  says  that  Pedro  visited  her  through 
a  conduit  that  ran  from  the  Fonte  dos  Amores  (Fountain  of  Love)  that  was 
in  the  Qutnta  das  Lagrimas  (Garden  of  Tears).  Constancia,  the  wife  of 
Pedro,  died  of  grief;  and,  the  affair  coming  to  the  knowledge  of  the  King 
Inez  de  Castro  was  murdered  by  his  order. 

Such  is  the  briefest  possible  outHne  of  the  epiosde;  and,  it  must  be 
admitted,  that  in  outline  it  is  in  no  way  distinctive  from  the  usual  amours 
of  princes.  But  the  sequel  is  what  raises  it  above  their  level  and  places  it, 
humanly,  among  the  great  love  tragedies  of  the  world.  No  passing  fancy 
had  it  been  on  the  part  of  Dom  Pedro.  His  first  act  on  ascending  the  throne, 
two  years  later,  was  to  punish  the  murderers  of  Inez.  Alvero  Gonsalves 
and  Pedro  Coelho  were  slowly  tortured  to  death  before  the  eyes  of  Dom 
Pedro  in  front  of  the  royal  palace  of  Coimbra;  but  the  third,  Pacheco, 
succeeded  in  escaping  to  England.  The  marriage  with  Inez  was  then 
pronounced  valid.  Her  body  was  disinterred;  taken  from  the  royal 
monastery  of  Alcoba^a;  and  placed  on  a  magnificent  throne,  elevated  on 


ISABEL   MOORE  349 

many  steps,  in  front  of  the  great  altar  of  the  Cathedral  of  Coimbra.  Her 
robes  were  regal;  a  veil  concealed  her  visage;  a  crown  was  on  her  head; 
her  hands  were  gloved,  one  grasping  a  scepter.  Pedro  stood  on  the  right 
side  of  the  throne,  in  complete  armour  and  bare-headed.  The  heralds 
proclaimed  the  titles  of  Inez  and  called  upon  all  true  subjects  to  do  honor 
to  their  Queen.  The  two  young  princes,  her  sons,  advanced  and,  it  is  said, 
at  first  shrank  back;  but  sustained  and  encouraged  by  the  monks  knelt  on  the 
steps  and  kissed  the  dead  hand  that  was  raised  and  extended  to  them  by  the 
officiating  Bishops.  The  clergy.  Ministers  of  State,  officers  of  the  Palace, 
ladies  of  the  Court,  hereditary'  nobles  of  the  land,  followed.  Not  a  word  was 
spoken,  not  a  sound  heard,  until  the  trumpets  proclaimed  that  the  royal  ordi- 
nance was  accomplished  and  the  Queen  Consort  of  Portugal  acknowledged  by 
her  subjects.  Then,  attended  by  every  symbol  of  sovereignty,  the  dead  body 
of  Inez  de  Castro  was  conducted  from  Coimbra  back  to  the  Alcobaca 
Monastery  —  fifty-two  miles  —  the  road  all  the  way  being  lined  with  people 
on  both  sides,  who  bore  lighted  torches.  The  funeral  procession  was  led 
by  Dom  Pedro  and  his  sons;  attended  by  all  the  great  of  the  kingdom,  the 
gentlemen  dressed  in  long  mourning  robes,  the  ladies  in  white  mourning 
veils. 

Once  again  was  Inez  de  Castro  taken  from  her  grave.  The  second 
time  was  by  the  French  soldiers,  during  the  Peninsular  War,  who  dragged 
her  body  and  Pedro's  forth  in  the  mercenary  hope  of  discovering  concealed 
treasure.  Pedro  was  a  mere  skeleton  in  royal  robes;  but  Inez  had  been 
so  skillfully  embalmed  that,  it  has  been  recorded,  'her  beautiful  face  was 
entirely  unchanged,  and  her  magnificent  hair  of  a  light  lustrous  auburn, 
which  had  been  the  marvel  of  the  whole  nation  during  her  life,  so  enriched 
in  length  and  volume  that  it  covered  her  whole  figure  even  to  her  feet  and 
excited  the  wonder  and  admiration  of  the  very  spoilers  who  tore  away  the 
rich  jewels  by  which  her  death  garments  were  clasped.' 

This  story  has  been  an  inspiration  to  many  literatures;  and 
the  best  literary  version — with  the  exception  of  Camoens'  episode  and, 
possibly,  the  dramas  of  the  Spaniard,  Bermudez  —  is  the  Portuguese  tradegy 
'Castro'  by  Dr.  Antonio  Ferreira,  which  is  also  the  first  Portuguese  version. 
In  it  is  a  Hymn  to  Love  that  is  most  lyrically  beautiful  and  that,  perhaps, 
belongs  here  as  illustrative  of  the  subject  that  was  its  inspiration,  although 
Ferreira  belongs  to  a  later  period  and  to  a  distinct  school.  It  closes  the 
First  Act  of  the  drama,  and  Bouterwek  gives  the  following  two  stanzas: 
'Ouando  Amor  naceo, 

Claros  rayos  ao  Sol,  luz  as  estrellas. 

O  Ceo  resplandecco, 


350  THE  LITERATURE  OF  PORTUGAL 

EJde  sua  luz  vencida 

A  escuridao  mostrow  ascousas  bellas. 

Aquella,  que  subida 

Esta  na  terceira  esphera, 

Do  bravo  nar  nascida 

Amor  ao  Mundo  da,  doce  amor  gera. 

Per  Amor  s'orna  a  terra 

D'agoas  e  de  verdura, 

As  arvores  da  folhas,  cor  as  floras. 

Em  doce  paz  a  guerra, 

A  dureza  em  brandura. 

E  mil  odios  converte  em  mil  amores 

Quanta  vidas  a  dura: 

Morte  desfaz,  renova: 

A  fermosa  pintura 

Do  mundo,  Amor  a  tem  inteira,  e  nova.' 
Dom  Pedro  himself  wrote  verse  in  both  the  Castilian  and  the  Portu- 
guese. He  used,  almost  entirely,  the  measure  of  the  Italian  canzone,  indi- 
cating that  the  Italian  influence  was  felt  at  an  early  period  in  Portugal; 
although,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  at  that  time  but  very  slight.  With 
Dom  Pedro  passed  the  period  of  the  royal  poets.  Royalty  continued  to 
encourage  literature  with  vary'ing  degrees  of  enthusiasm,  but  the  rulers  who 
loved  best  the  enterprises  of  discovery  seem  to  have  had  little  time  for  song  or 
inclination  for  song. 

M.  E.  M.  has  made  the  following  translations  of  three  Cantigas  by 
Dom  Pedro  I: 

I 

'When  shall  my  love  be  blest? 

When  shall  my  grief  be  o'er  } 
When  shall  my  fears  find  rest, 
Ne'er  to  awaken  more  ? 

Doubt  lets  not  grief  depart; 

Fear  is  still  abiding; 
Changeful  Fate  checks  my  heart 

From  its  warm  confiding. 

Vainly  doth  Hope  bestow 
A  sunny  smile  on  me: 


ISABEL   MOORE  3U 

Ne'er  doth  my  deep  love  know 
Blessed  Certainty.' 


'Long-sighed  for  Peace!  that  all  my  pain 

Cans't  soothly  end, 
Hope  would  not  smile  on  me  in  vain 
Wert  thou  my  friend. 

Be  but  my  friend!     So  wilt  thou  turn 

My  pain  to  pleasure; 
And  for  the  trials  I  have  borne 

Due  guerdon  measure. 

Firm  Faith  can  conquer  Grief  —  e'en  now 

My  griefs  shall  end; 
And  grim  Despair  will  die,  if  thou 
Wilt  be  mv  friend.' 

3 

'First  of  Earth's  Fair!   how  duly  thine 

Is  the  best  homage  of  the  heart; 
I  speak  thy  name  as  word  divine. 
To  me  the  joy  of  life  thou  art. 

Now  by  thy  worth,  thy  charms,  I  give 

Thee  all  my  love;  so  full,  so  free. 
That,  self-unloving,  now  I  live 

Forgetting  self,  to  think  of  thee. 

Faith,  in  thine  eyes,  doth  far  outshine 
All  that  Earth's  brightest  joys  impart; 

So,  my  life's  wealth!  like  one  divine 
I'll  shrine  thee  in  my  faithful  heart.' 

How  accurate  in  feeling  these  translations  are,  the  present  writer  does 
..^t  know,  nor  who  M.  E.  M.  was.  The  originals  are  very  difficult  of  access 
and  there  has  been  no  opportunity  to  compare  them  with  the  translations. 
There  are  certain  indications  that  the  spontaneity  of  feeling  has  been  sacri- 


no 


5^~ 


THE   LITERATURE  OF   PORTUGAL 


ficed  to  the  necessities  of  English  verse,  but  this  may  not  be  so.  Only,  all 
translations  should  be  approached  Nvitii  a  chastened  and  careful  spirit,  to 
invalidate,  so  tar  as  possible,  the  Italian  saying  that  'A  translation  is  a 
betrayal!'  'Of  all  species  of  poetry,'  says  Sismondi, 'perhaps  the  lyric  and 
bucolic  are  least  susceptible  of  being  rendered  into  another  tongue.  They 
lose  the  very  essence  of  their  beauty.' 

There  is  a  poetical  lament  in  Spanish  of  Dom  Pedro's  that  comes  to 
us  out  of  the  Past  in  a  great  cry  of  anguish,  an  almost  literal  translation 
of  which  is : 

'Blood  of  my  heart,  heart  that  belonged  to  me,  heart  that  hath  thus 
been  stricken,  who  could  dare   strike  thee  .^     His  heart  I  will  tear  out!' 

There  is  a  certain  direct  and  personal  wail  of  love  and  rage  and  revenge 
in  this  —  barbaric  and  passionate  —  that  brings  Dom  Pedro  the  man,  and 
even  Dom  Pedro  the  poet,  possibly  Dom  Pedro  the  King, —  into  a  more 
intimate  sympathy  with  the  universality  of  human  suffering.  The  form 
seems  to  have  not  been  considered:  there  is  none  of  the  objectivity  to  which 
verse,  even  direct  and  emotional  verse,  is  usually  bound:  and,  consequently, 
on  Carlyle's  principle  'see  deeply  enough  and  you  see  musically' — the 
spontaneous  form  is  essentially  and  inevitably  poetic. 

Ill 

'Sail  toward  the  setting  sun  until  you  come  to  an  island'  was  the 
instruction  given  by  Prince  Henry  of  Portugal  to  one  of  the  early  explorers: 
and  that  is  what  the  Portuguese  proceeded  to  do,  only  they  went  in  the 
direction  of  the  rising  sun  also,  and  came  to  continents  as  well  as  islands. 
Portugal's  'Idade  d'Ouro'  was  her  period  of  maritime  greatness  and  coin- 
cided, in  essential  points,  with  the  similar  period  in  Spain.  Both  nations 
became  too  intent  on  affairs  of  action  to  be  immediately  creative  in  literature. 
With  the  exception  of  the  old  ballads  that  continued  to  be  sung  in  the  hearts 
of  the  common  people,  there  was  no  verse  to  speak  of  written;  and  that  of 
the  earlier  times  did  not  receive  the  attention  that  it  merited.  Both  the 
Castilian  Court  under  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  and  the  Portuguese  Court 
under  John  the  Great  were  filled  with  the  noteworthy  men  of  the  day: 
warriors,  statesmen,  discoverers,  inventors;  and,  so  far  as  it  existed,  the 
literary'  movement  was  also  patronized  by  these  sovereigns;  but,  in  Portugal 
certainly,  it  was  not  until  the  succeeding  reign  of  Dom  Emmanuel  that  it 
consisted  of  anything  except  such  fugitive  ballad  literature  as  already  existed 
and  historical  chronicles.  But,  as  Prince  Henry  the  Navigator  had  prepared 
the  way  for  the  illustrious  discoveries  of  the  reign  of  Dom  John  II,  so,  in 


ISABEL  MOORE  353 

turn,  did  Dom  John  II  prepare  the  way  for  the  hterary  glories  of  the  reign 
of  Emmanuel.  The  story  of  nations  shows  that  a  Golden  Age  of  literature 
is  apt  to  follow  ven'  closely  a  Golden  Age  of  national  glory  and  accomplish- 
ment; and  the  growth  ot  Portuguese  greatness  as  a  whole  was  an  unbroken 
crescendo  of  achievement.  Emmanuel  himself  (1495-1521)  did  httle  to 
encourage  the  literarv  activity  of  his  country;  but  the  inevitable  outburst 
came  to  its  fulfillment  during  his  time.  Rather  curiously,  perhaps,  its  two 
forerunners  were  also  echoes  of  the  age  just  passed. 

Christoval  Falcao  is  the  earlier,  and  most  of  his  poems  belong  to  the 
class  of  the  Castilian  viUancicos  and  consist  chiefly  of  Cantigas  or  glossed 
mottoes  called  Esparcas.  Like  most  poets  —  and,  indeed,  some  ordinary 
mortals  —  he  had  his  vital  love  affair;  becoming  enamored  of  the  young 
and  beautiful  Maria  Brandam,  daughter  of  Diogo  Brandam,  the  Royal 
Treasurer,  and  likewise  a  graceful  and  pathetic  poet.  The  lovers  were 
separated  by  her  family,  and  the  lady  placed  in  a  Convent  from  which  she 
eloped  with  Falcao  and  reached  in  safety  the  town  of  Elvas,  not  far  from 
Falcao's  native  Pontalegre,  where  they  were  privately  married.  He  thus 
incurred  not  only  the  enmity  of  her  faimly,  but  of  the  Church,  for  eloping 
with  the  inmate  of  a  Convent;  and  for  five  years  w^as  imprisoned  upon  false 
charges.  During  this  imprisonment,  he  wrote  various  Cantigas  and  also, 
to  his  Maria,  a  poetic  epistle  superscribed:  'A  Letter  of  Chrisfal,  which, 
while  a  prisoner,  he  addressed  to  a  Lady  whom  he  had  privately  married, 
contrary  to  the  will  of  her  relatives.'  His  longest,  principal,  and  probably 
first,  composition  was,  however,  an  eclogue  of  ninety  stanzas  interspersed 
with  cantigas.  It  is  entitled  'Los  Amores  de  Chrisfal'  and  is  a  history  of 
the  love  passages  between  himself  and  his  beloved,  whom  he  celebrated  by 
her  own  name.  A  pretty  touch  is  at  the  end,  when  a  nymph,  who  has  heard 
the  complaints  of  Chrisfal,  inscribes  them  on  a  poplar  tree,  in  order  that 
they  may  grow  with  the  tree  to  a  height  beyond  the  reach  of  vulgar  ideas. 
M.  E.  M.  gives  this  translation: 

'The  Shepherd  sang  his  sad  farewell. 

A  wood-nymph,  listening  to  his  vow. 
Caught  up  the  fond  words  as  ihey  fell 

And  carved  them  on  a  poplar  bough. 
It  was  a  young  and  growing  tree; 

And  there  she  wrote  the  words  of  love 
That  rising  with  it,  they  might  be 
Placed  high  this  sordid  earth  above:  — 
Where  no  low  thought  could  e'er  attain 

To  desecrate  the  poet's  strain!' 


354  THE   LITERATURE   OF   PORTUGAL 

Notices  of  Falcao  are  few  and  his  works  rare.  His  simplicity  has  been 
likened  to  that  of  n  Grecian  statue,  'equaliv  unclad,  hut  equally  chaste  and 
pure.'  One  of  his  little  versihcations  is  an  odd  specimen  of  antithesis  and 
repetition: 

'Then  let  the  end  begin  its  ending; 

Since  end,  beginning  works  within:  — 
I  know  not  how  my  fate  is  tending, 

Whether  to  end  or  to  begin!' 
A  greater  than  Falcao  was  Bernardim  Ribeyro.  Indeed,  he  is  the  most 
celebrated  of  the  Portuguese  poets  of  the  fifteenth  century;  and  his  Eclogues, 
precedinc^  those  of  Juan  del  Enzina  of  Castile,  who  lived  about  the  same 
time  —  have  the  original  touch  of  representing  pastoral  life  as  the  poetic 
model  of  human  life,  and  as  the  ideal  point  from  which  every  passion  and 
sentiment  ought  to  be  viewed.  He  is  said  to  have  been  in  love  with  the 
Jnfanta  Dona  Beatrice;  and,  under  cover  of  little  pastoral  pictures,  reveals 
certain  events  and  romantic  situations  of  the  Lisbon  Court.  Not  only  was 
Ribeyro  a  married  man  at  the  time,  but  the  King's  daughter  could  never 
become  anything  to  him  except  his  ideal,  the  inspiration  of  his  verse;  she 
seems,  however,  to  have  served  this  purpose  satisfactorily  to  one  of  the 
most  temperamental  of  poets.  Several  ot  Ribeyro's  poems  were  the  direct 
result  of  his  hopeless  passion;  the  most  beautiful  being  that  beginning: 

*  My  sorrows  led  me  forth  one  day,' 
and,  possibly  this  was  the  day  when  he  witnessed  the  departure  of  the  Infanta 
to  be  married  to  the  Duke  of  Savoy;  an  occasion  that  the  historian  Resende 
calls  'a  very  lustrous  affair.' 

But,  aside  from  the  merit  of  Ribeyro's  Eclogues,  and  the  interest 
attached  to  them  as  being  the  oldest  examples  of  the  eclogue  in  either 
Spanish  or  Portuguese  verse,  the  graceful  little  prose  fragment  left  by  him 
unfinished  and  published  about  1500,  is  even  more  worthy  of  preservation 
and  recognition.  It  is  entitled  'Menina  e  Mouca,'  "small  and  young," 
or  —  not  quite  so  literally  in  form  but  more  literally  in  meaning  —  'A  Young 
and  Innocent  Maid.'  It  is  a  specimen  of  romantic  prose  that  is  both 
pastoral  and  chivalric,  and  that  can  be  most  favorably  compared  with  the 
'Rosylinde'  of  Thomas  Lodge,  which  served  Shakespeare  in  his  creation 
of 'As  You  Like  It.'  There  is  what  is  called  the  new  edition  of 'Meninae 
Mouca,'  published  by  a  descendant  of  the  poet,  in  Lisbon,  1785.  But  the 
old  edition  of  1559  is  by  far  the  more  interesting  and  valuable  because  the 
Appendix  includes  the  Eclogue  and  Falcao's  '  Chrisfal,'  as  well  as  a  collection 
of  poems  by  other  early  Portuguese  authors.  For  both  Falcao  and  Ribeyro 
had  their  followers  and  imitators.     And  this  early  group  devoted  itself  to 


ISABEL  MOORE  355 

the  lyric  expression  of  its  nativiry,  only  very  slightly  touched  by  the  passion 
for  Latin  versification  that  prevailed  in  the  Spanish  Peninsular  as  well  as 
in  Italy  toward  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  century.  They  were  free  from 
any  desire  to  model  their  verse  after  antique  classic  forms;  and,  though 
they  occasionally  wrote  Latin  verse,  the  vernacular  tongue  and  forms  not 
only  were  not  despised  nor  neglected,  but  were  actually  all-sufficient. 

Portugal  is  without  doubt  the  native  home  of  romantic  pastoral  poetry. 
In  Portugal  it  became  truly  national.  The  Portuguese  are  given  to  the 
utterance  of  their  emotions.  'They  are  a  gesticulating  people,  and  have 
a  heart:  —  and  wear  it  on  their  sleeve,'  has  been  justly  said  of  them.  The 
step  that  leads  directlv  on  from  national  characteristics  to  national  literature, 
has  been  aptlv  noted  by  Bouterwek,  who  says:  'They  pastoralize  their 
emotions,  whether  of  joy  or  sorrow.' 

IV 

The  introduction  of  the  Italian  influence  upon  Portuguese  Hterature 
was  unaccompanied  by  any  remarkable  struggle  or  sensation:  but  it  is  of 
vast  importance  because  of  its  influence  on  those  poets  who  formed  what 
is  called  the  Classic  School  of  Portuguese  literature,  two  of  whom,  and  the 
principal  two,  gave  certain  personal  touches  of  style  to  Castilian  literature 
in  return  for  the  Italian  influence  which  doubtless  reached  Portugal  through 
Castilian  sources.  Indeed,  to  George  Montemayor  (1520-1561)  is  attributed 
the  introduction  into  Spain  of  the  prose  pastoral:  and  both  Montemayor 
and  Sa  de  Miranda  belong  to  Castilian  literature  almost  as  much  as  they 
do  to  Portuguese.  At  this  time  the  Castilian  was  held  in  such  Hterary 
esteem  in  Portugal  that  many  Portuguese  poets,  without  undervaluing  their 
mother-tongue,  frequently  wrote  in  the  Castilian,  so  as  to  be  regarded  as 
masters  of  the  poetic  art.  One  sonnet  of  Montemayor's  can  be  read  as 
either  Spanish  or  Portuguese,  so  versatile  did  he  become  in  writing  the  two 
languages  at  once.  Yet,  though  six  out  of  his  eight  Eclogues  are  in  the 
Castilian,  his  pastorals  are  not  all  in  the  manner  of  Boscan  and  Garcilasse, 
but  sometimes  favor  the  ancient   short   meter  and   have  great  simplicity  of 

style. 

George  Montemayor  was  born  near  Coimbra  and  became  a  common 
soldier  with  a  gift  of  music  and  having  a  fine  voice  as  well  as  being  a  poet. 
Marfida,  a  Castilian  lady  fi)r  whom  he  seems  really  to  have  cared,  was  also 
the  divinity  of  his  verse:  but,  after  the  manner  of  such  divinities,  she 
married  somebody  else,  and  thus  —  as  in  the  case  of  Ribeyro  —  his  theme 
came  readily  to  hand.     'Dis  "Diana"  ("  Diana  Enamorada"),' says  Boater- 


356  THE   LITERATURE  OF   PORTUGAL 

wek,  'is  the  soul  of  himself.     He  succeeds  in  conveying  the  joys  and  sorrows 
of  his  own  heart  in  forms  of  general  interest.'     In  this  unfinished  pastoral 
there  is  a  series  of  lyric  poems,  partly  in  the  Italian  and  partly  in  the  Castilian 
st\le,  of  one  of  which  Sismondi  gives  the  following  translation: 
'Never  beloved,  but  still  to  love  a  slave, 

Still  shall  I  love,  though  hopeless  is  my  suit; 

I  suffer  torments,  which  I  never  gave, 

And  my  unheeded  sighs  no  ear  salute: 

Complaint  is  sweet  though  we  no  favor  know, 

I  reaped  but  shame  in  shimmering  love's  pursuit: 

Forgetfulness  alone  I  suffer  not  — 

Alas!  unthought  of,  can  we  be  forgot?' 
His  Diana  really  lived:  a  rich  and  beautiful  woman  of  Valencia,  and 
is  spoken  of  by  Lope  de  Vega  in  his  'Dorotea.' 

Sa  de  Miranda  (1494-1558)  wrote  so  much  in  the  Castilian  and  had 
so  marked  an  influence  on  the  Castilian  School  that  he  is  often  considered 
as  a  Castilian  poet:  but,  in  reality,  with  the  exception  of  the  pastoral  poems, 
the  greater  part  of  his  verse  is  in  the  Portuguese  language.  He  wrote  eight 
Eclogues  in  Castilian  and  only  two  in  Portuguese:  of  the  first  of  which  he 
tells  us  that  it  is  'A  Pastoral  Dialogue  in  tercets  concerning  love  and  in- 
difference, happiness  and  unhappiness.'  He  wrote  sonnets  in  both  Castilian 
and  Portuguese;  the  best  of  which  in  the  latter  language  are  considered 
to  be  those  to  Diogo  Bernades  and  to  Dom  Manuel  of  Portugal.  He  wrote 
a  beautiful  Elegy  on  the  death  of  his  son.  Under  the  general  heading  of 
'Poesias  Varias'  he  produced  innumerable  sonnets,  elegies,  redondilhas, 
cantigasy  sextinas,  es  pars  as,  that  are  all  exceedingly  simple  and  graceful; 
and  two  comedies,  'Os  Estrangeiros'  and  'Os  Vilhalpandos  first  printed, 
in  Lisbon  (1595)  by  Manoel  de  Lyra.  His  popular  songs  are  in  the  more 
ancient  forms  of  Portuguese  versification.  They  repeat  the  idea  of  the 
motto,  differently  turned  and  applied,  but  with  its  text  not  literally  inter- 
woven with  the  variations:  and  this  is  precisely  the  difference  that  dis- 
tinguishes the  older  Portuguese  cantigas  from  the  Spanish  villancicos. 
Sa  de  Miranda  spent  most  of  his  life  on  his  estate  of  Tapada  near  Ponte  de 
Lima.  He  was  particularly  fond  of  country  life  and,  best  of  all,  country 
life  in  his  own  country.  Its  romantic  pastoral  world  was  the  native  one  for 
his  muse,  and,  whether  he  used  the  Castilian  language  of  the  Portuguese, 
the  scenes  of  his  pastorals  were  always  laid  in  Portugal.  He  wrote  with 
so  little  regard  for  the  accepted  rules  of  versification  and  with  so  individual 
a  stv'le  as  to  be  the  despair  of  critics.  He  tried  all  forms  as  well  as  dis- 
regarded all  forms.     Sometimes  his  pastorals  are  like  the  Italian  canzoni, 


ISABEL  MOORE  357 

and  sometimes  like  the  Latin  ode.  His  style  has  been  ridiculed  as  'the 
Luso-Hispano-Italiano  blending/  Aside  from  the  eminence  attained  by 
this  Classic  School  in  itself,  however,  the  influence  of  the  Italian  upon  Portu- 
guese versification  can  never  be  deplored  even  by  the  most  patriotic,  for 
what  the  Italian  enabled  Montemayor  and  Miranda  and  the  others  of  the 
group  to  do,  was  to  perfect  and  refine  the  possibilities  of  the  old  Portuguese 
style  into  more  beautiful  and  completed  forms. 

It  is  sometimes  said  that  with  Sa  de  Miranda  the  literary  history  of 
the  Portuguese  drama  commenced.  Certainly,  in  spite  of  the  emotional 
tendencies  of  the  Portuguese,  no  special  effort  at  dramatic  writing  is  to  be 
found  in  Portugal,  as  there  is  not  in  Spain,  until  the  latter  half  of  the  fifteenth 
century:  and  Juan  de  la  Enzina  must  be  regarded  as  the  founder  of  the 
Portuguese  as  well  as  of  the  Castilian  drama.  But  Gil  Vicente  is  really  the 
Portuguese  author  most  closely  concerned  with  the  establishment  of  the 
national  theater.  He  was  born,  probably,  twenty  years  before  the  close  of 
the  fifteenth  century,  during  the  reign  of  Emmanuel;  but  Emmanuel's  son 
and  successor,  Dom  John  III,  was  the  acknowledged  patron  of  Gil  Vicente 
and  he  was  a  contemporary  of  Torres  Naharro  in  Spain,  who  did  practically 
the  same  for  the  Spanish  drama  as  Vicente  did  for  the  Portuguese.  Like 
Montemayor  and  Miranda,  he  is  to  be  numbered  among  the  Spanish  writers 
as  well  as  among  those  of  his  native  land  for,  of  all  his  plays,  ten  are  in  the 
Castilian  language  and  fifteen  partly  so,  while  seventeen  are  entirely  Portu- 
guese. In  the  judgment  of  Bouterwek,  the  farces  of  Gil  Vicente  are  the 
best  of  his  productions;  and  he  certainly  is  the  representative  of  the  Portu- 
guese classic  humor. 

The  reign  of  John  III  saw  the  full  flower  of  the  Classic  School.  Dr. 
Antonio  Ferreira  (1528-1564),  another  of  the  group,  began  his  literary 
eff^orts  by  avowing  a  great  loyalty  to  his  mother-tongue.  He  even  once 
declared  that  he  would  write  in  no  other  language.  But  he  was  hardly  as 
national  as  he  intended  to  be.  The  influence  of  the  Italian  was  irradicable; 
and,  although  he  did  much  to  maintain  the  independent  spirit  of  his  coun- 
try's literature,  his  predilection  for  classic  forms  was  too  strong  for  him  to 
withstand.  His  genius  had  dignity,  but  neither  sublimity  nor  great  origi- 
nality. His  taste  was  sound,  but  his  fancy  circumscribed.  There  was 
'a  tinge  of  pedantry,  a  sort  of  Latinized  air,  in  his  writings,  which  prevented 
his  being  a  popular  poet  or,  indeed,  what  is  much  more  vital,  a  great  poet  !' 
Of  his  113  sonnets,  the  best  are  those  addressed  to  'The  Lady  of  His 
Thoughts';  particularly  the  one  beginning: 

'Who  hath  seen  burning  snow,  or  fire,  like  mine.'' 

Cold  while  it  flames!  what  living  man  e'er  stood 
Within  Death's  gate,  singing  in  joyous  mood  .^' 


358  THE  LITERATURE   OF   PORTUGAL 

His  odes,  not  being  lyric  or  truly  dramatic,  are  not  so  fine  as  his  sonnets; 
\et  ho  set  an  example  to  writers  of  odes  in  his  own  language  in  much  the 
same  wav  as  did  his  Spanish  contemporary,  Luis  de  Leon,  to  his  country- 
men. 1  he  elegies  ot"  Ferreira  are  considered  to  be  very  beautiful;  and, 
up  to  the  time  of  their  appearance,  were  a  new  form  in  Portuguese  com- 
position, with  the  exception  of  one  by  Sa  de  Miranda.  That  on  May  is 
as  toUows: 

Vem  Mayo  de  mil  hervas,  de  mil  flores 

As  frontes  coroado,  e  riso,  e  canto. 

Com  Venus,  com  Cupido,  cos  Amores. 
Venca  o  prazer  a  dor,  o  riso  ao  pranto 

Vase  longe  daqui  cuidado  duro, 

Em  quanto  o  ledo  mez  de  Venus  canto. 
Eis  mais  alva  a  menham,  mais  claro,  e  puro 

Do  Sol  o  rayo:  eis  correm  mais  fermosas 

Nuvens  afugentando  o  ar  grosso  e  escuro. 
Sae  a  branda  Diana  entre  as  lumiosas 

Estrellas  tal,  qual  ja  ao  pastor  fermoso 

Veo  pagar  mil  horas  saudosas, 
Mar  brando,  sereno  ar,  campo  cheiroso, 

Foge  a  Tristeza,  o  Prazer  folto  voa, 

O  dia  mais  dourado,  e  vagaroso. 
Tecendo  as  Gracas  vao  nova  coroa 

De  Mythro  a  May,  ao  filho  mil  Spiritos. 

O  fogo  resplandece,  a  al  jaba  soa. 
Mil  versos,  e  mil  vozes,  e  mil  gritos 

Todas  de  doo  amor,  e  de  brandura 

Huns  s'ouvem,  huns  nos  troucos  ficam  escritos. 
Ali  soberba  vem  a  Fermosura, 

Apos  ella  a  Affeicao  cega,  e  cativa, 

Quanto  huma  mais  chorosa,  outra  mais  dura. 
Ah  manda  Amor  assi;  assi  quer  ue  viva 

Contente  a  triste,  do  que  sen  Deos  manda, 

De  seja  inda  mais  dor,  pena  mais  viva. 
Mas  quanto  o  mo9o  encruece,  a  may  abranda, 

Ella  a  peconha,  e  o  fogo  Ihe  tempera: 

Assi  senhora  de  mil  almas  anda, 
Ali  o  Engano  em  seu  mal  cego  espera 

Hum'  hora  doce;  ali  o  Encolhimento 

Sem  causa  de  si  mesmo  desespera. 
Aos  olhos  vem  atado  a  Pensamento. 


ISABEL  MOORE  359 

Nao  voa  a  mail  quali  tern  presente, 
E  em  tanto  mal,  tudo  he  contentamento. 
E  riso,  em  festa  corre  a  leda  gente, 

Tras  o  fermoso  fogo  em  que  sem  pr'arde, 
Cada  hum,  quanto  mais  arde,  mais  contente. 
Manda  Venus  ao  Sol  menham  e  tarde. 

Que  sens  crespos  cabellos  loure,  e  estenda, 
Qu'em  vir  s'  apresse,  qu'  em  se  tornar  tarde. 
Ao  brando  Norte,  que  assopre,  e  defenda 
Do  ardor  da  sesta  a  branda  companhia, 
Em  quanto  alcam  de  myrtho  fresca  tenda, 
Corre  por  toda  parte  clara,  e  fria 

Agoa;  cae  doce  sombra  do  alto  Louro, 
Canta  toda  ave  canto  d'alegria; 
Ella  a  neve  descobre,  e  solta  o  ouro; 

Banham-na  as  Gracas  na  mais  clara  fonte; 
Aparece  d'  Amor  rico  thesouro, 
Caem  mil  flores  da  dourada  fronte, 
Arde  d'Amor  o  bosque,  arda  a  altra  serra, 
Aos  olhos  reverdence  o  campo,  e  o  monte. 
Despende  Amor  sens  tiros,  nenhum  erra, 
Mil  de  baixo  metal,  algum  do  fino. 
Pica  de  saus  despojos  chea  a  terra. 
Vencida  d'huma  molher,  e  d'hum  minino. 
But  the  real  fame  of   Dr.  Antonio  Ferreira  rests  on  his  tragedy  of 
'Castro,'  for  which  he  had  no  other  model  than  the  ancients  and,  possibly 
Trissino's  'Sophonisba,'  the  first  tragedy  of  modern  times.     It  is  difficult  m 
plot,  but  written  in   very  beautiful  language,  with  what  may  be  called  a 
Greek  Chorus  of  Coimbrian  women:  and,  to  fully  appreciate  the  importance 
of  the  epoch  marked  by  its  appearance,  we  must  remember  that  at  this 
time  neither  France  nor  England  knew  anything  of  the  drama  beyond  the 
mysteries  and  moralities. 

Yet  others  of  the  Classic  School  of  Miranda  were  Diogo  Bernardes, 
the  '  Poet  of  Lima'  and  his  brother  Agostinho  Bernardes  who  finally  became 
a  hermit  of  the  Arrabida.  Southey  considered  Diogo  Bernardes  one  of 
the  best  of  the  Portuguese  Poets.  His  life  was  a  romance.  He  was  a  native 
of  Ponte  de  Lima  and  particularly  loved  the  scenery  of  the  river  Lima, 
his  mr)st  characteristic  work  being,  perhaps,  the  poem  'O  Lyma,  first 
published  in  1596. 

'Lone  by  soft  muniuiring  Lyma  oft  1  stray,' 

he  sings. 


360  THE   LITERATURE  OF   PORTUGAL 

He  went  to  Lisbon,  and  there, 

'Where  the  Tagus  loses  tide  and  name 
And  freshness,  Love  robbed  me  of  my  life's  best  days'; 
he  says  in  an  epistle  to  his  intimate,  Ferreira.     From  his  captivity  to  the 
Moors  in  Africa,  he  writes: 

Still  lovely  to  my  troubled  thoughts  shall  seem 

My  own  regretted  Lvma,  dear  for  ever; 
E'en  if  Oblivion's  spell  be  in  its  stream, 

It  hath  no  power  on  me,  forgetting  never, 
Its  soft  low  murmur  could  not  lull  to  rest, 
Remembrance,  ever  wakeful,  in  my  breast!' 
The  river  Lima  is  the  Lethe  of  the  ancient  world,  and  there  is  an  interest- 
ing legend  of  it  about  Decimus  Brutas  and  his  superstitious  soldiery. 

In  later  years  Bernardes  wrote  a  good  deal  of  devotional  verse.  That 
addressed  to  the  Virgin  partakes  curiously  of  the  love  song  element.  He 
becomes  for  the  time  most  romantically  spiritual;  and  the  Virgin  is  his 
'Lady'  in  all  human  attributes  as  well  as  being  his  divinity.  One  of  his 
songs  not  addressed  to  the  Virgin,  but  to  his  Soul,  is  written  in  the  old 
national  Portuguese  Endechas,  a  kind  of  plaintive  verse: 
'Soul,  why  self-deceiving. 

Self-forgetting  be  ? 
To  mortal  life  thus  giving 
Triumphs  over  thee. 

Life  maltreats,  betrays  thee, 

Yet  thou  lov'st  it  —  why 
E'en  for  that  which  slays  thee 

Dost  thou  gladly  die } 

All  that  Life,  requiring. 

Seeks,  or  can  obtain. 
Given  to  its  desiring 

Were  but  brief  and  vain. 

Whence  proceeds  the  erring 

And  perverted  will; 
To  certain  good  preferring 

But  too  certain  ill  ? 

Joys,  like  flowers  late  blooming 
(Born  of  quick  decay) 


ISABEL  MOORE  361 

Pinions  like  assuming, 
Pass  like  winds  away.' 
For  a  long  time  Diogo  Bernardes  was  under  a  cloud  among  literary 
people  on  account  of  having  been  accused  of  plagerism  from  Camoens. 
There  seems,  however,  to  be  no  particular  foundation  for  this,  and  late 
students  have  exonerated  him.  What  we  do  know  with  certainty  —  and 
what  may  have  given  rise  to  the  accusation  —  is,  that,  when  Camoens' 
first  poems  appeared,  Bernardes  was  the  only  one  of  the  classicists  who 
publicly  avow^ed  his  high  appreciation  of  them. 

Jeronymo  Cortreal  and  Pedro  Andrade  Caminha  were  two  others  of 
the  Classic  School,  though  little  more  than  imitators  of  Ferreira.  Francisco 
Manuel  do  Nascimento  was  another,  who  developed  much  more  individuality 
of  style.  And  one  interesting  human  thing  to  note  about  this  group  of 
Portuguese  writers  is  that  there  remains  now  no  record  to  show  that  there 
ever  existed  among  them  any  literary  jealousy.  They  seem  to  have  been 
all  friends  and  co-workers.  The  last  of  the  distinctive  classicists  was 
Rodriguez  Lobo,  born  in  Leiria  about  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century. 
So  great  a  scholar  was  he  and  so  lasting  an  influence  had  he  on  romantic  prose 
that  he  has  been  ranked  next  to  Camoens  and  Miranda.  Little  is  known 
of  him  personally  except  that  he  lived  in  retirement  in  Santarem  and  met 
his  death  by  drowning  in  the  Tagus  which  he  loved  and  so  often  had  cele- 
brated in  verse.  He  wrote  ten  eclogues  in  Portuguese  and  about  a  hundred 
romances  in  Spanish  and  founded  that  excessive  accumulation  of  pastoral 
poetry  existing  in  Portugal,  doing  all  in  his  power  to  fix  the  national  taste 
in  that  direction.  His  'Court  in  the  Country'  was  the  first  book  of  classic 
prose  to  be  produced  in  Portugal;  and  he  also  wrote  three  connected 
pastoral  romances  that  are  pronounced  by  Bouterwek  to  be  'the  most 
luxuriant  blossoms  of  this  old  branch  of  Portuguese  poetry.'  They  are  very 
long;  set  in  a  framework  of  prose;  and  entitled  'Primavera'  ('Spring') 
'O  Pastor  Peregrine'  ('The  Wandering  Shepherd'),  and  'O  Desengando* 
('The  Disenchanted').  They  contain  several  beautiful  lyrics:  the  following 
being  from  'Primavera'  (translated  by  M.  E.  M.). 
'Now  the  wished-for  sun  is  bringing 

Life  to  day,  and  tints  to  earth; 
Leads  the  shepherd,  gaily  singing. 

To  his  flocks  that  wait  him,  forth. 
Now  chill  night  succeeds,  and  chases 

Golden  luster  from  the  skies; 
Bright-eyed  dawn  the  night  replaces 

While  its  radiance  glads  our  eyes. 


^62  THE   LITERATURE  OF   PORTUGAL 

Learn  we  thus  (and  not  in  vain) 
Suns  hut  set  to  rise  again. 

One  day  flies  —  the  rest  that  follow 
Reach  us,  but  are  mocking  fleet; 

Laughing  at  my  hopes  so  hollow, 
And  my  visions  false,  yet  sweet. 

Still,  howe'er,  my  fate  may  thwart  me 
Unconvinced,  unchanged,  I  live; 

From  those  dreams  I  cannot  part  me 
That  such  dear  delusions  give; 

Hoping  yet  in  countless  years 

One  bright  day  unstained  with  tears.' 
There  are  other  poets  of  this  period  who  do  not  belong  to  the  Classic  School, 
notably,  Jorge  Ferreira  de  Vasconcellos,  Rodriguez  de  Castro,  Gabriel 
Pereira  de  Castro,  and  Lobe  de  Soropito.  Vasconcellos  wrote  several 
comedies  and  a  romance  of  the  Round  Table,  Rodriguez  de  Castro  lived 
in  Italy  a  good  deal  and  wrote  sonnets,  odes  and  eclogues;  Gabriel  de 
Castro  wrote  the  heroic  poem  'Ulissea';  and  Soropito's  chief  claim  to  dis- 
tinction is  that  he  published  the  miscellaneous  poems  of  Camoens. 

Such  epics  as  'Ulissea'  and  the  'Malacca  Conquestada*  of  Francesco 
de  Sa  de  Menzes  gave  rise,  to  a  certain  extent,  to  the  authentic  histories 
which  came  into  evidence  about  this  time.  The  'Asia'  of  John  de  Barras 
was  the  first  great  work  containing  genuine  information  relating  to  the 
Portuguese  possessions  in  Asia.  Lopez  de  Castenheda  and  Antonio 
Bocarro  gave  histories  of  the  Portuguese  conquests  of  India.  Alfonso 
Albuquerque  wrote  his  Commentaries:  Damio  de  Goez  compiled  his 
account  of  the  reign  of  Dom  Emanuel:  Bernardo  de  Brito  wrote  his  *Mon- 
archia  Lusitana':  Jerome  Osorio  wrote  his  history:  and  last  but  by  no 
means  least,  Manuel  de  Faria  e  Sousa  wrote  his  'Europa  Portuguesa.* 
Although  he  was  the  author  of 'Divinas  y  Humanas  Elores,'  he  was  a  finer 
historian  than  poet;  and  also  produced  a  valued  commentary  on  the 
miscellaneous  poems  of  Camoens.  With  him  pastoral  poetry  went  into  its 
grotesque  state,  as  will  be  seen  was  inevitable  from  his  remark  to  the  effect 
that  'the  only  (observe  the  only)  things  required  in  poetry  are  invention, 
imagery,  pathos,  and  a  display  of  ever}'  kind  of  knowledge.'  It  is  interesting 
to  compare  this  wich  the  opinion  of  the  Marquis  of  Santillana  who,  in  his 
remarkable  and  well-known  letter,  speaks  of  poetry  as  'an  invention  of  useful 
things  which,  being  enveloped  in  a  beautiful  veil,  are  arranged,  exposed 
and  concealed,  according  to  a  certain  calculation,  measurement  and  weight.' 
To  such  straits  had  poetry  come!      Although  the  influence  of  the  Classic 


ISABEL  MOORE  363 

School  lingered  long  in  Portuguese  literature,  it  became  extinct  about  the 
close  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  all  Portuguese  literature  was  about  to 
be  stricken  temporarily  dumb. 

The  wave  of  national  prosperity,  material  and  intellectual,  was  receding. 
Several  events  had  transpired  that  were  lost  sight  of  at  the  immediate  time, 
but  that  had  a  most  disastrous  effect  on  the  national  life.  In  1540  the  Jesuits 
had  been  introduced.  During  the  reign  of  John  III  the  Inquisition  had 
been  established,  with  the  Holy  Office  in  Lisbon.  The  Jews  were  finally 
expelled  from  the  Peninsular.  The  growth  of  the  absolute  monarchial 
principle;  the  evils  of  the  slave  trade;  and  the  depopulation  due  to  the 
emigrations  to  the  newly  established  colonies;  had  all  sapped  the  vigor  of 
the  kingdom.  Then  came  the  misplaced  ambition  of  Dom  Sebastian  to 
conquer  Africa  and  his  complete  defeat  in  1578:  with  the  entailed  Spanish 
Captivity  (1580-1640).  It  had  long  been  a  veritable  'castle  in  Spain' 
with  Philip  II  to  subjugate  Portugal  and,  Sebastian's  death  having  left  the 
Portuguese  throne  open  to  various  pretenders,  he  now  availed  himself  of 
his  neighbor  to  accomplish  his  desires. 

A  few  there  were  who  foresaw  the  utter  downfall  of  Portuguese  greatness 
and  independence;  who  could  stand  aside  and  objectively  view  the  unhappy 
trend  of  coming  events.  Camoens  was  one  of  these;  and,  just  before  the 
grip  of  Spain  killed  the  material  prosperity  and  lyric  life  of  the  Portuguese 
people,  he  lifted  up  his  voice  —  like  the  fabled  song  of  the  expiring  swan  — 
and  gave  to  all  the  world  his  great  poem  'Os  Lusiads.' 

V 

Camoens  can  no  more  be  dealt  with  in  short  space  than  can  Shakespeare. 
He  is  the  climactic  arrival;  the  whole  that  contains  the  lesser  parts;  the 
last  of  the  adventurous  spirits;  the  master  of  Portuguese  literature. 

Briefly,  Luiz  de  Camoens  came  of  a  good  Galician  family  and  was 
born  in  Lisbon,  in  the  'Mouraria'  or  Moorish  part  of  the  city,  in  1524. 
His  university  days  were  spent  in  Coimbra,  where  an  uncle  of  his  was  the 
principal  Chancellor  of  the  University.  They  were  probably  the  happiest 
years  of  his  life.  Then  came  his  love  affair.  On  a  Good  Friday,  in  the 
Church  of  Christ's  Wounds  in  Lisbon,  on  April  nth,  1542,  he  first  beheld 
Dona  Caterina  de  Ataide,  one  of  the  Queen's  ladies-in-waiting.  Laws 
at  that  time  were  'very  severe  upon  anyone  who  encouraged  amours  within 
the  palace'  and  because  of  some  misdemeanor  in  connection  with  his  love 
affair,  Camoens  was  banished  from  Court.  This  formed  a  pretext  for  the 
family  of  the  lady  to  terminate  all  intercourse  between  them;  but,  in  the 
hour  of  parting,  Caterina  confessed  her  love.     It  was  natural  that  in  his 


364  THE  LITERATURE  OF   PORTUGAL 

banishment  he  should  seek  the  countn^  of  the  'Ribatejo'  or  banks  of  the 
Tamis  above  Lisbon,  for  his  mother  Dona  Anna  de  Sae  Macedo,  was  of  the 
noble  family  of  the  Macedos  of  Santaren.  From  his  retirement  he  sought 
and  obtained  permission  to  accompany  King  John  III  against  the  African 
Moors,  in  which  expedition  Camoens  lost  his  right  eye  from  splinters  from 
the  deck  of  the  ship  on  which  he  was  stationed.  His  conduct  was  so  brave, 
that  he  was  at  last  recalled  to  Court:  —  only  to  learn  of  the  death  —  at  the 
age  of  twenty  —  of  his  Caterina.  After  this  he  became  a  voluntary  wanderer 
and  exile.  The  so-called  cave  in  which  Camoens  is  said  to  have  written 
his  great  poem  of  the  Lusiads  is  still  shown  in  Macao,  in  Portuguese  India, 
in  a  garden  just  above  the  church  of  St.  Antonio.  From  it  there  is  a  view 
of  the  sea  and  the  dim  outhnes  of  fair  islands.  To  the  south  and  west  lies 
the  Inner  Harbor;  to  the  north  the  Barrier  and  small  walled  town.  In 
1569  Camoens  returned  to  his  native  land,  to  find  the  Plague  raging  in  Lis- 
bon. He  survived  his  return  eight  years,  'living  in  the  knowedge  of  many 
and  the  society  of  few'  and  dying  at  the  age  of  fifty-live.  Of  his  country's 
sad  estate  he  had  so  clear  a  vision  that  he  wrote  to  his  friend,  Dr.  Francesco 
de  Almeida,  a  few  days  before  his  death:  'You  will  all  see  that  I  so  loved 
my  mother  country,  that  I  came  back,  not  only  to  die  in  it,  but  with  it.* 
And  only  one  year  after  his  death,  Philip  II  of  Spain  was  proclaimed  King 
of  Portugal.  It  is  recorded  that  on  his  entrance  into  Lisbon,  Philip  asked 
for  Camoens  and  was  grieved  at  hearing  of  his  death. 

The  last  days  of  Camoens,  like  those  of  many  another  gifted  man, 
were  spent  in  neglect  and  poverty.  Antonio,  his  Javanese  servant,  remained 
with  him  to  the  end,  actually  begging  in  the  streets  for  bread:  and  the 
winding  sheet  in  which  he  was  wrapped  was  obtained  in  alms  from  the 
house  of  D.  Francesco  de  Portugal.  On  his  gravestone  in  the  Francescan 
Convent  Church  of  Sta.  Anna  is  carved: 

'Here  lies  Luiz  Camoens:  Prince  of  the  Poets  of  his  time. 
He  lived  poor  and  miserable,  and  so  he  died.' 

In  the  first  edition  of  the  Lusiads  there  was  a  note,  written  by  one  who 
was  present  at  his  death-bed.  The  book  was  left  by  this  person,  F.  Josepe 
Judio,  in  the  convent  of  the  bare-footed  CarmeHtes  at  Guadalaxara,  and 
is  now  in  Lord  Holland's  collection.     It  reads: 

'What  can  be  more  lamentable  a  thing  than  to  see  so  great  a  genius 
ill  rewarded!  I  saw  him  die  in  a  hospital  at  Lisbon,  without  a  winding 
sheet  to  cover  him,  after  having  triumphed  in  India  and  sailed  5500  leagues 
by  sea.  What  a  great  lesson  for  those  who  weary  themselves  day  and  night 
in  studying  without  profit,  as  a  spider  is  weaving  its  web  to  catch  flies.' 

As  a  rule,  the  Portuguese  do  not  seem  to  think  so  much  of  the  minor 


ISABEL  MOORE  365 

poems  of  Camoens.     They  are  apt  to  neglect  his  smaller  compositions  and 
to  undervalue  their  originality  of  sentiment  and  the  beauty  of  their  expres- 
sion.    But,  as  Viscount  Strangford  has  truly  pointed  out,  the  real  circum- 
stances of  Camoens'  life  are  mostly  to  be  found  in  his  own  minor  com- 
positions: and  Robert  Southey  is  of  the  opinion  'that  to  most  imaginations, 
Camoens  will  never  appear  so  interesting  as  when  he  is  bewailing  his  first 
love.     It  is  in  these  moments  that  he  is  most  truly  a  poet.'     Southey  has 
himself  translated  one  of  the  sonnets  of  this  emotion: 
'Meet  spirit,  who  so  early  didst  depart. 
Thou  art  at  rest  in  Heaven:  1  linger  here 
And  feed  the  lonely  anguish  of  my  heart; 
Thinging  of  all  that  made  existence  dear, 
All  lost!     If  in  that  happy  world  above 
Remembrance  of  this  mortal  world  endure, 
Thou  wilt  not  then  forget  the  perfect  love 
Which  still  thou  seest  in  me, —  O  spirit  pure! 
And,  if  the  irremediable  grief, 
The  woe,  which  never  hopes  on  earth  relief. 
May  merit  aught  of  thee;  prefer  thy  prayer 
To  God,  who  took  thee  early  to  his  rest, 
That  it  may  please  him  soon  among  the  blest 
To  summon  me,  dear  maid,  to  meet  thee  there.' 
Another  poem  on  the  death  of  D.  Caterina  is  as  follows: 

'Those  charming  eyes,  within  whose  starry  sphere 
Love  whilom  sat  and  smiled  the  hours  away. 
Those  braids  of  light  that  shamed  the  beams  of  day. 
That  hand  benignant,  and  that  heart  sincere; 
Those  Virgin  cheeks,  which  did  so  late  appear 

Like  snow-banks,  scattered  with  the  blooms  of  May, 
Turned  to  a  little  cold  and  worthless  clay, 
Are  gone  —  forever  gone  —  and  perish  here: 
But  not  unbathed  by  Memory's  warmest  tear! 
Are  gone  —  forever  gone  —  and  perish  here: 
But  not  unbathed  by  Memory's  warmest  tear! 
Death!  thou  hast  torn,  in  one  unpitying  hour, 
That  fragrant  plant,  to  whicii,  while  scarce  a  flower, 
The  mellower  fruitage  of  its  prime  was  given; 
Love  saw  the  deed        and,  as  he  lingered  near. 
Sighed  o'er  the  ruin,  and  returned  to  heaven!' 


366  THE  LITERATURE  OF   PORTUGAL 

And  yet  a  third  has  an  unmistakably  direct  bearing  on  his  'affair  of  the  heart.' 
'Sweetly  was  heard  the  anthem's  choral  strain, 
And  myriads  bow'd  before  the  sainted  shrme» 
In  solemn  reverence  to  their  Sire  divine, 
Who  i^ave  the  Lamb  for  guilty  mortals  slain; 
When,  in  the  midst  of  God's  eternal  fane, 
Ah,  little  weening  of  his  fell  design! 
Love  bore  the  heart  (which  since  hath  ne'er  been  mine) 
To  one  who  seemed  of  heaven's  elected  train: 
For  sanctity  of  place  or  time  were  vain, 

'Gainst  that  blind  archer's  soul-consuming  power. 
Which  scorns  and  soars  all  circumstance  above, 
O,  lady!  since  I've  worn  thy  gentle  chain 

How  oft  have  I  deplored  each  wasted  hour 
When  I  was  free:  —  and  had  not  learned  to  love!' 
Two  of  what  may  be  called  his  nature  sonnets  are  peculiarly  indicative  of 
Camoens'  temperamental  nature,  the  one  beginning: 
*Mondego,  thou,  whose  waters  cold  and  clear 
Gird  those  green  banks  where  fancy  fain  would  stay,' 
and  the  lyric  cry  that  has  been  translated  by  Richard  Garnett: 
'O,  for  a  solitude  so  absolute, 

Rapt  from  the  spite  of  Fate  so  far  away, 
That  foot  of  man  hath  never  entered,  nay, 
Untrodden  by  the  foot  of  every  brute: 
Some  wood  of  aspect  lowering  and  mute. 
Or  lonely  glen  not  anywhere  made  gay. 
With  plot  of  pleasant  green,  or  water's  play; 
Such  haunt,  in  fine,  as  doth  my  anguish  suit! 
Thus  is  the  entrail  of  the  mountain  locked. 
I,  sepulchred  in  life,  alive  in  death. 
Freely  might  breathe  my  plaint:  perceiving  there 
The  grief  whose  magnitude  nought  measureth 
Less  by  the  brilliance  of  the  bright  day  mocked. 
Soothed  by  the  dark  day  more  than  otherwise.' 
There  are  many  random  lines  throughout  his  writings  that  give  insight 
to  Camoens  the  man  as  well  as  to  Camoens  the  poet.     Observe,  as  examples: 
*In  lonely  cell  bereaved  of  liberty, 

Error's  meet  recompense,  long  time  I  spent: 
Then  o'er  the  vrorld  disconsolate  I  went, 
Bearing  the  broken  chain  that  left  me  free.' 

Sonnet  5. 


ISABEL   MOORE  367 

'But  my  disastrous  star  whom  now  I  read:  — 
Blindness  of  death,  and  doubtfulness  of  life, 
Have  made  me  tremble  when  I  see  a  joy,' 

Sonnet  5. 
'All  things  from  hand  to  hand  incessant  pass.' 

Sonnet  195. 
'And  wind  hath  taken  what  to  wind  was  given.' 

Sonnet  173. 
'Thought  built  me  castles  soaring  from  the  ground, 
That  ever,  when  the  cope-stone  should  be  laid, 
Crumbled  and  lay  upon  the  earth  as  dust.' 

Sonnet  177. 
'Ocean  I  roamed  and  isle  and  continent, 
Seeking  some  remedy  for  life  unsweet. 
But  he  whom  fortune  will  not  frankly  meet. 
Vainly  by  venture  woos  her  to  his  bent.' 

Sonnet  100. 
'Summoning  the  number  of  the  wasted  days; 
They  pass  like  shadows  on  the  silent  ways. 

Nor  fruit  of  them  doth  their  slow  march  reveal, 
Save  this  —  they  are  no  more!' 

Sonnet  355  (Composed  in  prison). 
'  But  the  free  soul,  how  far  soe'er  it  range, 
Thought-winged,  flies  lightly  over  land  and  sea, 
And  in  your  current  doth  her  plumage  lave.' 

Sonnet  133. 
'Yet  am  I  storing  up  in  sunny  hour 
Sweet  thought  of  thee  against  the  cloudy  day.' 

Sonnet  136  (On  revisiting  Cintra, 
after  the  death  of  Caterina). 
'Confessing  with  a  silent  tear 
That  heaven  and  hell  are  wondrous  near!' 

Canzonet. 
'It  was  a  little  smile  that  stole 
The  cherish'd  sweets  of  rest.' 

Canzonet. 
Camoens  wrote  many  of  his  minor  poems  in  Spanish,  and  some  in  a  blend 
of  the  two  languages  when  he  walks  —  as  he  expresses  it  —  'with  one  foot 
in  Porrugal  and  rhe  other  in  S|iain.'     The  sonnets  have  been  translated 
by  many  different  scholars  and  pc^ets.     His  lyrics  fall  into  two  main  classes, 


368  THE  LITERATURE  OF   PORTUGAL 

accordint^  to  Burton,  those  written  in  Italian  meters  and  those  in  the  trochaic 
Hnes  and  strophic  forms  of  the  Peninsular.  The  first  class  is  contained 
in  the  'Parnasso,'  which  comprises  358  sonnets,  22  canzones,  27  elegies, 
12  odes,  8  octaves,  15  idvls,  —  all  of  which  tesify  to  the  strong  influence 
of  the  Italian  School  and,  especially,  of  Petrarch.  The  second  class  is 
contained  in  the  'Cancioneiro,'  or  song  book,  and  includes  more  than  150 
compositions  in  the  national  peninsular  manner.  He  never  prepared  an 
edition  of  his  '  Rimas'  and  the  manuscript  he  is  said  to  have  arranged  during 
his  sojourn  in  Mozambique  from  1567  to  1569  is  said  to  have  been  stolen.  In 
1595  Fernao  Rodrigues  Lobo  Soropita  collected  from  Portugal  and  India, 
and  published  in  Lisbon,  a  volume  of  172  songs  by  Camoens,  four  of  which 
are  not  bv  Cameons  and  others  of  which  are  doubtful. 

All  Camoens'  lyrics  have  been  translated  into  German  by  Dr.  Wilhelm 
Storck  of  the  University  of  Munster:  and  in  English  there  are  innumerable 
versions.  But,  as  we  all  know, '  translation  for  the  most  part  is  an  expedient 
equally  fallacious  and  impotent.'  And  Lord  Byron  observed  that  'it  is  to 
be  remarked  that  the  things  given  to  the  public  as  poems  of  Camoens' 
are  no  more  to  be  found  in  the  original  Portuguese  than  in  the  Songs  of 

Solomon.' 

This  holds  particularly  good  with  regard  to  the  versions  given  by  Lord 
Viscount  Strangford,  the  British  Plenipotentiary  at  Lisbon  during  the 
War  of  the  Spanish  Succession.  Burton  says  amusingly:  'There  is,  how- 
ever, nothing  objectionable  in  his  excerpts  from  Camoens'  except  their 
perfect  inadequacy.' 

Strangford,  indeed,  cannot  be  called  a  translator.  He  was  an  adapter. 
Camoens  suggested  to  him  a  motif  for  his  own  gallant  and  amorous  experi- 
ences. Says  Strangford  of  the  minor  poetry  of  Camoens':  'The  general 
characteristic  is  ease:  not  the  studied  carelessness  of  modern  refinement, 
but  the  graceful  and  charming  simplicity  of  a  Grecian  muse.'  This  ease  — 
the  first  kind  —  Strangford  presumes  upon  and  applies  to  his  own  renderings 
of  Cameons'  meanings,  the  most  flagrant  example  being,  perhaps,  'The 
Lady  who  Swore  by  Her  Eyes.'  It  is  a  very  pleasing  little  poem — as 
Strangford's.  It  is  also  very  pleasing  in  the  Portuguese  of  Camoens'. 
But  they  are  very,  very  different  from  each  other. 

Camoens  somewhat  admits  of  this  sort  of  juggling.  In  his  minor  verse 
he  has  the  simplicity  of  the  Troubadours  with  the  elegance  of  the  Italian 
School.  He  was  fond  of  the  Troubadour  poetry;  and,  in  the  days  of  his 
young  manhood,  there  was  a  certain  Peninsular  revival  of  interest  in  the 
Troubadour  forms,  brought  about  through  the  Counts  of  Barcelona  be- 
coming by  marriage  Counts  of  Provence. 


ISABEL   MOORE  369 

Strangford's  little  volume  of  translations  was  most  severely  criticised, 
shortly  after  it  appeared,  in  the  Edinburgh  Revieiu  (1803)  and  a  literal 
version  given  of  one  of  the  poems  by  Camoens  with  Strangford's  paraphrase. 
Camoens  reads: 

'When  the  sun,  overcast,  is  showing  to  the  world  a  tranquil  and  dubious 
light,  to  go  along  a  beautiful  meadow,  figuring  to  myself  my  enemy  —  here 
have  I  seen  her  composing  her  tresses  —  here,  with  her  face  upon  her  hand, 
so  beautiful  —  here  talking  cheerfully  —  there  thoughtful  —  now  standing 
still  —  now  walking  —  here  was  she  seated  —  there  she  beheld  me,  as  she 
raised  those  eyes,  so  indifferent — here  somewhat  she  moved —  there  secure — 
here  she  grew  sorrowful  —  there  she  smiled.  —  And,  in  short,  in  these 
wear)'  thoughts  I  pass  this  vain  life,  which  lasts  forever.' 

Camoens  seems  to  have  taken  this  from  Petrarch;  and  Strangford 
thinks  that  Petrarch  may  be  indebted  for  the  idea  to  Ovid.  Strangford's 
rendering  is: 

*When  day  has  smiled  a  soft  farewell. 

And  night-drops  bathe  each  shutting  bell, 
The  shadows  sail  along  the  green. 

And  birds  are  still,  and  woods  serene, 
I  wander  silently. 

And  while  my  lone  step  prints  the  dew. 

Dear  are  the  dreams  that  bless  my  view. 
To  memory's  eye  the  maid  appears, 

For  whom  have  sprung  my  sweetest  tears, 
So  oft,  so  silently. 

I  see  her  as,  with  graceful  care. 

She  binds  her  braids  of  sunny  hair; 
I  feel  her  harp's  melodious  thrill 

Strike  to  my  heart;  —  and  thence  be  still. 
Re-echoed  faithfully. 

I  meet  her  mild  and  quiet  eye. 

Drink  the  warm  spirit  of  her  sigh. 
See  young  love  beating  in  her  breast 

And  wish  to  mine  its  pulses  prest. 

God  knows  how  fervently! 


370  THE   LITERATURE  OF   PORTUGAL 

Such  are  my  hours  of  dear  delight, 

And  noon  hut  makes  me  wish  for  night, 
And  think  how  swift  the  minutes  flew 
W  hen,  last  among  the  dropping  dew, 
I  wandered  silently.' 
Pleasing  as  such  versification  may  be  in  itself,  there  can  be  no  apology 
adequate  to  excuse  calling  it  a  translation,  and  the  only  explanation  of  such 
a  proceeding  is  that  in  the  early  part  of  the  nineteenth  century,  when  the 
attention  of  all  Europe  was  fixed  on  the  Spanish  Peninsular  because  of  the 
Napoleonic  wars,  Portugal  became  the  literary  fashion  in  England,  and, 
because  hitherto  so  unknown,  English  writers  felt  that  almost  any  extrava- 
gance might  be  perpetrated  in  her  name.     On  a  par  with  Strangford's  so- 
called  translations,  is  Mrs.  Browning's  extravaganza  of  emotion  which  she 
called  'Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese,'  and  which  never  had  any  origin  in 
Portuguese  literature,  save  that  the  Portuguese  have  ever  written  sonnets 
and  are  impassioned  in  their  love. 

A  translation  by  Strangford  that  is  much  more  accurate  in  both  feeling 
and  expression  than  the  foregoing,  is  this  Canzonet: 
'I  whispered  her  my  last  adieu, 
I  gave  a  mournful  kiss; 
Cold  showers  of  sorrow  bathed  her  eyes. 
And  her  poor  heart  was  torn  with  sighs: 
Yet  strange  to  tell  —  'twas  then  I  knew 
Most  perfect  bliss. 

For  love,  at  other  times  suppress'd. 
Was  all  betrayed  at  this  — 
I  saw  him  weeping  in  her  eyes, 
I  saw  him  breathe  amongst  her  sighs, 
And  every  sob  which  shook  her  breast 
Thrilled  mine  with  bliss. 

The  sigh  which  keen  affection  clears, 
How  can  it  judge  amiss  ? 
To  me  it  pictured  hope;  and  taught 
My  spirit  this  consoling  thought. 
That  Love's  sun,  though  it  rise  in  tears, 
May  set  in  bliss!' 
And  a  Rondeau,  that  seems  to  have  been  suggested  by  a  hint  from  the 
Troubadour    Ausian    March,  is   too    charming    to   be    omitted,    even    in 


ISABEL   MOORE  371 

Strangford's   translation  —  indeed,  how  far  because  of  Strangford's  trans- 
lation, is  an  open  question. 

'Just  like  Love  is  yonder  rose, 

Heavenly  fragrance  round  it  throws; 
Yet  tears  its  dewy  leaves  disclose, 
And  in  the  midst  of  briars  it  blows. 
Just  like  Love. 

Culled  to  bloom  upon  the  breast. 

Since  rough  thorns  the  stem  invest 
They  must  be  gathered  with  the  rest 

And,  with  it,  to  the  heart  be  press'd, 
Just  like  Love. 

And  when  rude  hands  with  twin-buds  sever, 
They  die  —  and  they  shall  blossom  never  — 

Yes,  the  thorns  be  sharp  as  ever, 
Just  like  Love. 
Strangford  never  translated  the  Lusiad,  except  a  few  stanzas.  This  great 
poem  deals  with  the  adventures  of  Vasco  de  Gama  and  is,  almost  incidentally 
an  epitome  of  the  achievements  of  the  Portuguese  nation.  Camoens  dedi- 
cated it  to  Dom  Sebastian.  The  three  greatest  episodes  in  it  are  the  Legend 
of  the  Floating  Island,  The  Spirit  of  the  Cape  and  Inez  de  Castro.  La 
Harpe,  who  figures  as  one  of  the  French  translators  of  the  Lusiads,  says 
that,  although  it  lacks  'action,  character  and  interest'  as  a  whole,  he  prefers 
its  well-known  episode  of  Dona  Inez  de  Castro  to  the  whole  of  'Paradise 
Lost.'  Voltaire  has  also  criticised  the  machinery  of  the  Lusiads.  But 
Voltaire  has  also  made  Cameons  born  a  Spaniard  and  a  comrade  of  Vasco 
de  Gama  who,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  died  before  Camoens  was  born.  Southey, 
although  a  Spanish  scholar,  was  better  acquainted  with  Mickle's  poor 
English  heroic  couplets  than  with  the  Portuguese  of  the  Lusiads.  La  Harpe 
did  not  know  Portuguese  at  all  (so  says  Sir  Richard  Burton),  his  so-called 
translatif)n  being  nothing  more  than  a  new  rendering  of  the  literal  version 
by  D'Hermilly:  and  Voltaire  knew  the  Lusiads  only  through  Mickle's 
translation.  Adamson  says  (in  1820)  that  there  are  one  Hebrew  translation 
of  the  Lusiads,  five  Latin,  six  Spanish,  four  Italian,  three  French,  four 
(jcrman,  and  two  English.  The  oldest  English  version  is  by  Sir  Richard 
Fanshaw  (1655)  who  was  the  PLnglish  Embassador  sent  to  Lisbon  to  arrange 
for  the  marriage  of  Cliarics  II  of  England  with  Catherine  of  Braganza. 
By  the  time  of  the  third  Centennial  Celebration  in  Portugal  ot  the  death 


372  THE   LITERATURE   OF   PORTUGAL 

of  Camoens  (1580-18S0)  there  were  seven  complete  English  translations. 
At  this  tnne,  also,  there  was  brought  out  in  Lisbon  the  best  complete  edition 
of  Camoens'  works,  the  '  Hibliotheca  Camoneana,'  by  juromenha,  in  seven 
volumes.  It  contains  a  list  ot  all  works  upon,  and  translations  of,  Camoens. 
Of  the  various  translations  of  Camoens  Burton  says  'all  are  meager  in  the 
e.xtreme,  thev  follow  like  a  Hock  of  sheep,  they  reflect  one  another  like 
a  band  of  Chinamen.' 

Sir  Richard  Burton's  own  translations  of  the  Lusiads  and  the  Lyrics 
of  Camoens  deserve  b)'  far  the  most  consideration,  as  being  entirely  scholarly. 
It  so  happened  that  his  own  personal  travels  formed,  as  he  says,  'a  running 
and  realistic  commentary  upon  the  Lusiads.'  And  again,  'I  have  not  only 
visited  almost  every  place  named  in  the  Epos  of  Commerce;  in  many  I 
spent  months  and  even  years.'  Burton  speaks  of  'my  Master,  Camoens' 
and  finds  in  him  much  of  the  Orient;  its  'havock  and  its  all  splendor. 
And  —  regarding  his  translation  —  he  naively  remarks  that  'after  all,  to 
speak  without  due  modesty,  my  most  cogent  reason  for  printing  this  trans- 
lation of  my  Master  is,  simply,  because  I  prefer  it  to  all  that  have  appeared.' 

Yet  with  all  our  faith  in  Richard  Burton,  we  feel  the  need  —  when 
reading  his  Camoens — of  his  wife's  strenuous  assertions:  not  that  they 
convince  us;  indeed,  their  very  insistance  merely  confirms  our  worst  fears: 
but  we  need  something  to  explain  at  least  why  certain  mannerisms  were 
allowed  to  interfere  with  usual  lucidity  of  feeling  and  expression  of  the 
original  text.  She  says:  'This  translation  is  not  a  literary  tour  de  force 
done  against  time  or  to  earn  a  reputation:  it  is  the  result  of  a  daily  act  of 
devotion  of  twenty  years.'  So  far,  so  good.  The  scholarly  devotion  of 
Burton  has  never  been  questioned.  But,  'Whenever  my  husband  has 
appeared  to  coin  words,  or  to  use  impossible  words,  they  are  the  exact 
rendering  of  Camoens;  in  every  singularity  or  seeming  eccentricity  the 
Disciple  has  faithfully  followed  his  Master:  —  his  object  having  been  not 
simply  to  write  good  verse,  but  to  give  a  literal  word  for  word  rendering 
of  his  favorite  hero.  And  he  has  done  it  to  the  letter,  not  only  in  the  words, 
but  in  the  meaning  and  intention  of  Camoens.'  And  again,  'To  the 
unaesthetic,  to  non-poets,  non-linguists,  non-musicians,  non-artists.  Burton's 
Lusiads  will  be  an  unknown  land,   an  unknown  tongue,' 

Even  in  the  face  of  such  an  impeachment,  one  cannot  refrain  from 
questioning  the  'literal  word  for  word  rendering,'  and — what  is  of  far 
greater  importance  —  the  'meaning  and  intention  of  Camoens'  in  certain 
lines.  Not  to  be  too  prolix  on  the  subject  it  is  but  neressary  to  compare 
the  following  lines  from  the  sonnets: 


ISABEL   MOORE  373 

'Amor,  com  a  esperanca  ja  perdida.'  —  Camoens. 
(Amor,  with  Esperance  now  for  aye  forlore.)  —  Burton. 

'Com  grandes  esperancas  ja  cantey.' — Camoens. 
(While  ere  I  sang  my  song  with  hope  so  high.)  —  Burton. 

'Amor,  que  o  gesto  humano  na  Alma  Enscreve.'  —  Camoens. 
(Amor,  who  human  geste  on  soul  doth  write.) —  Burton. 

'Tanto  de  meu  estado  mecho  incerto.' — Camoens. 
(I  find  so  many  doubts  my  state  enfold.)  —  Burton. 

'Transforma  se  o  amador  na  cousa  amada.'  —  Camoens. 

(Becomes  the  Lover  to  the  Loved  transformed.)  —  Burton. 
But  enough  about  Burton's  methods.  One  either  likes  Burton  or  one  does 
not.  With  regard  to  our  consideration  of  Camoens  himself,  we  must 
always  remember  that  the  epic  was  in  its  infancy.  Trissino  had  attempted 
the  liberation  of  Italy  from  the  Goths,  but  with  poor  success.  Ariosto  and 
his  followers  had  thrown  enchantment  around  the  fictions  of  Chivalry. 
Tasso's  'Jerusalem  Delivered'  had  appeared  only  the  year  before  'Os 
Lusiads.'     Verily,  Camoens  w^as,  as  Gerald  Massey  said: 

'the  poet  of  weary  wanderers 
In  perilous  lands;  and  wide-sea  voyagers.' 

VI 

By  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century  the  most  brilliant  period  of  Portu- 
guese poetry  had  passed  away.  The  Spanish  Captivity  was  like  a  death- 
blow, yet  Portuguese  literature  could  not  die.  When  Philip  II  of  Spain 
annexed  Portugal,  it  had  produced  Vasco  de  Gama  and  Alfonso  de  Albur- 
querque;  and  its  language  had  been  developed  from  a  Romance  dialect 
into  a  literary  language  by  Miranda  and  Camoens.  There  was  too  much 
individual  strength  for  Portugal  to  become  lost  in  Spain.  The  period 
( 1 580-1640)  was  one  of  deep  national  depression  and  humiliation:  but  it 
did  not  become  the  permanent  established  order.  When,  at  last,  the  revolt 
against  Spanish  oppression  had  been  victorious  and  the  Portuguese  dynasty 
resumed  its  sway  with  John  V,  the  first  of  the  House  of  Braganza,  the  treaty 
of  offense  and  defense  between  Portugal  and  her  ol  dally,  England,  was 
renewed;  and  the  crushed  national  life  of  Portugal  again  lifted  up  its  head. 

In  literature,  her  people  turned  naturally  to  the  period  of  their  past 
greatness,  and  followers  of  Camoens  imitated  his  great  works.  A  few 
Chronicles  were  written.      But  the  new  life  was  sluggish.     One  of  the  forms 


374  THE   LITERATURE   OF   PORTUGAL 

it  took,  was  a  sort  of  buffoonery  in  the  sonnet  writing:  and,  while  most  of 
this  composition  is  weak  and  ridiculous,  the  burlesquing  of  the  old  pastoral 
poetrv  by  Freire  de  Andrade  is  said  to  be  often  witty  and  just.  This  crazy 
and  bombastic  writing  was  called  by  Matheus  Ribeyro  the  '  Posia  Incuravel.' 
But  Portugal  produced  no  Cervantes. 

Though  much  was  written,  not  much  was  written  that  was  fine.  Poetry 
gained  little  from  the  recrudescence.  Lyric  art  in  the  old  national  syllabic 
meters  was  entirely  abandoned.  Patriotic  feeling  again  found  its  way  into 
Portuguese  life  and  letters,  but,  in  the  verse  of  Ribeiro  de  Macedo  and  Correa 
de  la  Cerda,  it  became  verily  '  flat,  stale  and  unprofitable.'  This  also  applies 
to  the  verse  of  Violante  de  Ceo,  a  nun  in  the  Convent  da  Rosa  in  Lisbon  and 
the  first  woman  whose  name  occurs  in  the  annals  of  Portuguese  literature. 
Alveres  da  Cunha  and  Jeronymo  Bahia  also  wrote  a  corrupt  form  of  versifi- 
cation. 

There  are,  however,  a  few  exceptions  to  the  general  deplorable  condition; 
notably,  Barbosa  Barcellar  (1610-1663)  who  produced  some  good  sonnets 
in  the  style  of  Camoens,  his  most  remarkable  writings  being  a  kind  of  elegy 
of  romantic  aspiration  called  Sandades. 

But  the  Poetic  Muse  lay  gasping  for  breath.  She  could  not  seem  to 
recover  from  her  bondage.  In  addition  to  this  enfeebled  state,  was  the 
fact  that  a  strong  tide  of  French  influence  set  in  among  Portuguese  men  of 
letters  and  the  life  of  the  Court.  Poor  Portugal!  So  many  foreign  in- 
fluences had  been  brought  to  bear  upon  her  at  various  times;  and  yet,  while 
recognizing  and  to  a  degree  accepting  each,  she  had,  nevertheless,  held  her 
own  individuality  aloof.  Now,  however,  exhausted  and  almost  desperate, 
she  succumbed  just  when  she  was  on  the  eve  of  a  new  birthright.  From 
the  Gothic  and  Romanic  she  had  arisen;  borne  herself  triumphantly  in  the 
presence  of  the  Arabian,  the  Italian,  the  Castilian;  now  to  droop  quickly 
before  the  French.  This  French  influence  is  the  characteristic  of  this 
period  of  Portuguese  poetry.  Toward  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century 
there  was  a  total  decay  of  even  the  half-hearted  attempts  of  the  sonneteers 
and  the  satirists. 

The  first  part  of  the  eighteenth  century  saw  a  slightly  improved  state 
of  things.  Although  the  divinely  creative  instinct  had  gone,  apparently 
never  to  return,  an  historical  and,  to  a  certain  extent,  literary  revival  did 
take  place.  The  so-called  Age  of  Sonnets  was  succeeded  by  the  Age  of 
Academies.     But  when  did  Academies  ever  produce  poetry  .? 

In  1720  the  Academy  of  History  was  founded  in  Lisbon  by  John  V, 
during  the  reign  of  whose  son,  Joseph  Emmanuel  (i 750-1777),  lived  the 
the  Marquis  of  Pombal,  who  was  a  patron  of  literature  and  music.     Pombal 


ISABEL  MOORE  375 

founded  the  Acadia  de  Lishoa  in  1757,  two  years  after  the  great  earthquake 
that  demoHshed  the  greater  part  of  Lisbon  and  which  Voltaire  describes 
so  graphically  in  'Candide.'  He  it  was,  too,  who  expelled  the  Jesuits, 
thereby  removing  —  for  a  time  at  least  —  one  incubus  off  the  heaving 
breast  of  his  mother  country.  The  Arcadia  de  Lishoa  was  followed  by  the 
Academia  Real  des  Sciences  in  1779,  which  published  many  of  the  old 
Portuguese  Chronicles.  In  17 14  an  Academia  Portugueza  had  been  formed 
on  the  model  of  the  French  Academy  with  a  view  to  improve  the  taste  for 
poetry;  and  offered  prizes  to  serve  this  end.  Other  Academies,  on  the 
Italian  plan,  followed.  There  was  undoubtedly  a  great  spirit  of  advance- 
ment abroad,  but  it  worked  for  the  most  part  through  the  Academicians. 

Among  the  earlier  were  Antonio  Diniz  da  Cruz  e  Silva,  who  took  the 
name  of  Elpino  Monacrense,  and  whose  best  work  is  his  translation  of  the 
Pindaric  Odes:  Joao  Xavier  de  Matos,  who  translated  a  play  by  M.  I'Abbe 
Genest  and  called  it  'Penelope'  and  who  wrote  a  play  'Viriacia':  Sebastao 
Francisco  Mendo  Trigozo,  who  translated  Racine;  Hippolyto,  who  trans- 
lated Euripides:  Domingos  dos  Reis  Quinta,  who  wrote  a  three-act  tragedy 
on  Inez  de  Castro  and  was  well-known;  Pedro  Antonio  Correa  Garcao, 
who  wrote,  odes,  satires,  epistles,  sonnets  and  two  dramas,  and  won  the 
distinciton  of  being  the  first  of  the  moderns  to  appreciate  the  purity  of  his 
native  language:  and  Francesco  Manoel  de  Nascimento  who  took  the  name 
of  Elysio  on  joining  the  Academicians  and  who,  escaping  the  earthquake 
and  the  Inquisition,  was  exiled  to  France.     Among  the  historians  who  lived 
at  this   time  were  Alessandro  Herculano,  whose    history   of   Portugal  is 
regarded  as  the  highest  authority,  the  Visconde  de  Santarem,  and  Augusto 
Rebello  da  Silva.     Among  the  dramatists  was  Manoel  Maria  Barbosa  du 
Bocage,  who  wrote  the  tragedies  of 'Viriato,"  Alfonso  Henriques'  and  '  Vasco 
da  Gama.'     Among  the  poets  were  Luis  Augusto  Palmeirim,  Jose  Soares  de 
Passos,  Jose  da  Silva,  Mendes  Leal,  Antonio  Feliciano  de  Castildo,  Fran- 
cesco de  Pina  de  Mello,  Joaquim  Fortunado  de  Valdares  Gamboa,  Nicolao 
Tolentino  de  Almeida,   Joao   Baptista   Gomes,   Louren^o  Caminha,    and 
Paulino  Cabral  de  Vasconcellos.     Two  others  —  Joao  Baptista  de  Almeida 
Garrett  and  D.  Francesco  Xavier  de  Menzes,  Conde  of  Ericeira  —  stood 
head  and  shoulders  above  their  compeers.     The  former  wrote  a  ten-canto 
poem  on  Camoens  and  intended  to  collect  the  popular  romance  poetry  of 
Portugal  as  Scott  did  the  minstrelsy  of  the  Border,  but  failed   to  do  so, 
although  he  left  an  interesting  letter  on  the  subject    in  his    romance    of 
'Adozindo':  and  the  latter  was  altogether  the  most  voluminous  writer  and 
most   brilliant   literary   character   of  his   time,   succeeding    more    than    his 
contemporaries  in  keeping  free  from  the  French  influence,   holding   aloof 


376  TIIK   LITKRATURE   OF   PORTUGAL 

and  following  more  the  traditions  of  the  sixteenth  century  of  Portuguese 
literature. 

During  the  latter  half  of  the  eighteenth  century  conditions  became  even 
better.  Francisco  Vasconcellos,  a  native  of  Madeira,  belonged  to  this 
period.  Diogo  de  Monrov  e  Vasconcellos,  Thomas  de  Sousa,  Luis  Simoes 
de  Azevado,  Diogo  Caniacho,  Jacinto  Freire  de  Andrade,  Simao  Torezao 
Coelho,  Duarte  Ribeiro  de  Macedo,  Fernam  Correa  de  la  Cerda,  Antonio 
Telles  da  Silva  and  Nunes  da  Silva,  some  of  whose  songs  and  sonnets  are 
really  worthier  of  a  better  day,  are  all  named  of  writers  who  have  sought 
accomplishment. 

'Wt,  in  spite  of  their  vast  endeavor  and  past  achievement,  we  cannot 
but  realize  the  truth  of  what  one  who  knows  and  loves  the  Portuguese, 
has  written : 

'Portuguese  poetry  is  like  a  time-honored  olive  that  in  its  prime  was 
rich  in  luxuriant  leaves  and  fair  fruit,  but  is  now  drooping  to  decay;  its 
foliage  thinned,  its  fruit  degenerated,  and  giving  no  sign  of  throwing  up 
vigorous  sapplings  from  its  roots.  .  .  It  is,  however,  sometimes  pleasant  to 
let  memory  recall,  in  its  declining  age,  the  flourishing  time  of  the  good 
old  tree.' 


HILLIGENLEI 

By  Warren  Washburn  Florer 

THE  earlier  writings  of  Gustav  Frenssen,  the  pastor  poet  of 
Germany,  have  influenced  thousands  of  German  homes, 
because  the  German  people  understand  them.  Frenssen's 
books  sing  of  nature  and  human  life,  grand,  strong,  and 
true;  of  confidence  in  man,  in  the  eternal  powers,  in  God. 
They  sing  of  a  simple,  original  Christianity  —  the  religion 
of  Christ,  the  Man  of  Galilee.  In  these  writings,  the 
essential  source  of  which  is  experience  with  men,  with  their  sorrows,  their 
suff^erings,  their  needs,  and  their  hopes,  Frenssen  fearlessly  attacked  the 
sins,  the  customs,  and  the  laws  of  family,  church,  state,  which  lay  as  a  heavy 
weight  upon  humanity. 

The  language  of  these  writings  is  simple,  direct,  and  natural.  The 
characters  are  natural,  consistent  men  and  women,  therefore  psychologically 
true.  They  show  development  of  observation  and  personality,  and  there- 
fore growth.  They  betray  a  search  for  the  truth,  sometimes  uncertain  in 
its  results,  therefore  at  times  obscurity  is  evident.  This  is  especially 
noticeable  in  the  means  employed  to  throw  light  on  the  characters,  as  is 
seen  in  the  stories  taken  too  often  from  the  fable  world.  But  withal  they 
are  powerful  books  and  their  very  weaknesses  give  hopes  of  future  develop- 
ment. 

After  four  years  of  additional  observation,  research  and  seeking  after 
the  truth,  Frenssen  gives  his  'larger  parish'  'Hilligenlei,'  the  theme  of  which 
is  a  search  in  the  mires  and  struggles,  hopes  and  aspirations  of  humanity, 
for  a  Holy  Land.  (Hilligenlei  means  Holy  Land.)  One  still  hears  the  echo 
of  the  critics,  each  one  striking  the  note  corresponding  to  his  education  and 
character,  therefore  to  his  attitude  to  literature  and  the  problems  of  humanity, 
especially  to  religion  which  is  the  foundation  of  the  book.  Perhaps  no  book 
in  the  history  of  German  literature  has  evoked  such  a  storm  of  criticism. 

Frenssen  unfolds  in  this  epochmaking  work  many  phases  of  life  of  the 
entire  German  people.  It  contains  so  much  that  the  reader  is  unable  to 
grasp  the  content,  and  often  one  loses  the  numerous  threads  of  action  which 
permeate  the  book.  In  fact  these  threads  are  at  times  apparently  broken, 
or  at  least  disconnected.  One  becomes  lost  in  the  network  of  the  experiences 
of  Kai  Jans  and  the  other  leading  characters.  However,  there  is  evident 
a  mastery  of  character  development  in  the  powerful  Pe  Ontjes  Lau,  in  the 

111 


378  HILLIGENLEI 

brilliant,  but  deceptive  Tjark  Dusenschon,  in  the  proud  and  passionate 
Anna  Boje,  and  in  the  beautiful  friend  of  Kai  Jans  —  Heinke  Boje. 

The  character  of  Kai  |ans  is  not  intended  to  be  'fertig.'  His  entire 
life  is  a  restless  search  for  the  Holy.  It  is  a  manifold  development.  He 
is  uncertain,  introspective  and  lacks  confidence.  He  sees  his  lofty  con- 
ception of  human  nature  marred  at  every  turn  by  the  actions  of  men  and 
the  cruelty  of  man  to  man.  In  the  portrayal  of  Kai  Jans,  Frenssen  shows 
strength  and  consistency,  not  literar}'  M^eakness. 

The  reader  who  considers  'Schwung,'  freely  translated  "well-rounded 
sentences,'  as  an  essential  characteristic  of  good  style  will  take  exception 
to  the  simple,  direct  language.  He  will  criticize  also  the  figures  and  meta- 
phors employed  to  interpret  ideas  and  characters.  An  undesirable  feature, 
indeed,  is  the  copious  use  of  adjectives  in  description.  A  lack  of  discrimi- 
nation in  the  language  used  by  the  different  characters  is  a  decided  weakness. 
This  causes  a  certain  smoothness  of  style,  but  it  is  obtained  at  the  cost 
of  individuality. 

Men  are  unfortunately  not  interested  in  child  life,  which  is  but  man's 
life  in  miniature,  and  so  the  introductory  chapters  may  seem  monotonous. 
Men  are  not  interested  in  the  accounts  of  the  life  of  Christ  in  the  New 
Testament,  so  the  'manuscript'  with  all  its  beauties  and  power  may  prove 
to  be  tedious.  Again  one  may  smile  at  the  fictitious  village  Hilligenlei, 
with  its  peculiar  characters,  classes,  institutions  and  episodes,  but  it  is  true 
to  nature.  One  may  observe  similar  incidents  and  conditions  in  one's 
own  town. 

Those  who  do  not  know,  as  Goethe  said  in  defense  of  his  Clarchen, 
that  there  is  a  class  between  a  'Gottin'  and  a  'Dime,'  will  find  many  a 
choice  morsel  to  roll  under  their  tongues  in  this  book  which  treats  naive 
human  impulses  of  strength  and  purity.  Many  who  have  experienced 
but  little  of  the  world  will  deem  much  which  is  so  commonplace  as  impossible, 
firmly  convinced  that  only  that  is  possible  which  they  meet  in  their  narrow 
walks  of  life.    The  life  which  Frenssen  unfolds  to  them  will  be  but  a  Marchen. 

It  is  true  that  Frenssen  has  treated  Sinnengier,  not  because  he  'delighted 
to  depict  the  errors  and  sin  of  youth  and  men,  but  out  of  pity,  in  order  that 
one  might  be  able  to  see  the  healthy  and  the  natural.'  The  poet  reformer 
unveils  a  picture  of  social  conditions  which  is  appalling,  and,  if  true,  will 
eventually  lead,  unless  improved,  to  a  disintegration  of  German  society  and 
government,  for  these  conditions  are  gnawing  at  the  very  foundation  of  all 
society  and  government  —  the  home. 

Frenssen's  purpose  is  to  uplift  humanity.  Strengthened  by  the  con- 
ception that  art  has  a  moral  purpose,  he  continues  to  attack  the  conditions 


WARREN  WASHBURN  FLORER  379 

which  tend  to  dull  the  moral  sense  of  the  people  and  to  retard  a  healthy 
development  of  the  individual.  Frenssen's  ideal  is  that  men  and  women 
should  enjoy  the  good  and  strong  impulses  of  nature  given  them  by  the 
eternal  powers;  should  live  a  natural,  therefore  a  moral  life;  should  always 
endeavor  to  search  for  a  Holy  Land,  even  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow 
of  death.  The  rod  and  staff  of  comfort  are  wanting,  because  the  people 
have  no  religion.  Yea,  even  worse,  the  youth  laugh  at  religion  and  have 
no  respect  for  Christ. 

Hilligenlei  will  not  appeal  to  the  average  novel  reader  of  our  country. 
It  offers  too  serious  food  for  thought  and  reflection.  As  a  work  of  art  it 
will  not  satisfy  many  aesthetic  readers.  As  in  Germany  it  will  evoke  the 
same  opposition  from  the  orthodox  pastors  of  the  land.  But  to  men 
interested  in  the  progress  of  man  and  in  the  evolution  of  social  conditions 
it  will  prove  to  be  a  book  full  of  rich  treasures,  a  book  which,  if  heeded, 
will  be  a  boon  to  our  country,  inasmuch  as  it  treats  conditions  which  are 
already  influencing  American  life. 

At  the  very  first  the  poet  treats  the  old  problem  of  society  and  literature, 
the  preying  upon  the  natural  instincts  of  human  nature,  the  result  of  which 
is  too  often  illegitimate  offspring.  This  offspring  robbed  of  its  natural 
rights  is  either  bitter  or  unscrupulous.  Likewise  the  poet  condemns  'Sitte' 
(conventional  morality)  as  one  of  the  enemies  of  home  life  and  the  primary 
cause  of  the  Jungweibernot  throughout  the  land. 

The  dire  influences  of  the  saloon  upon  the  inhabitants  of  Hilligenlei 
and  upon  the  workmen  in  Berlin  are  depicted.  In  Hilligenlei  one  finds 
the  saloon  the  moving  factor  in  the  affairs  of  the  village.  Here  are  as- 
sembled both  old  and  young  men.  One  beholds  the  hundreds  who  pass 
on  the  highways  of  Slesvig-Holstein,  lazy  and  intoxicated.  One  witnesses 
the  untimely  death  of  the  teacher  Boje,  just  because  a  man  was  drunk. 
The  sad  faces  of  women  and  children  relate  the  influences  of  drink,  drink 
which  fills  the  asylums  and  prisons,  and  poisons  the  morals  and  health  of 
countless  thousands. 

The  young  men,  corrupted  by  these  conditions,  have  false  conceptions 
of  happiness  and  success.  They  strive  for  mere  honor  and  money.  The 
principle  of  Tjark  Dusenschon,  'one  must  take  money  wherever  one  can 
get  it,*  the  principle  of  graft,  is  true  for  hundreds  of  young  men  of  this 
generation  and  is  encouraged  by  business  men  and  by  society.  However, 
in  this  age  of  unsafe  finance,  one  hears  the  wise  words  of  the  merchant  who 
never  forgot  the  highest  standard  of  his  profession.  He  cared  that  no  goods 
should  perish  and  that  the  wares  of  the  earth  should  be  distributed  over  the 
entire  world  for  the  welfare  of  all,  that  they  should  become  useful  to  men, 
ward  off  need  and  increase  the  joys  of  life. 


380  HILLIGENLKI 

Frenssen  treats  the  conflicts  of  the  rich  and  the  poor.  He  traces  the 
underlying  causes  of  the  existing  hatred  and  distrust,  for  example,  the 
excessive  riches  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  ahject  poverty,  as  seen  in  the 
tenements  of  large  cities.  He  believes  that  men  are  the  real  cause  of  sins 
and  sufferings  in  that  they  deprive  their  fellowmen  of  land  and  force  them 
to  live  in  the  pitiless,  narrow  streets.  At  the  same  time  he  cannot  under- 
stand why  the  men  do  not  desire  to  go  out  into  the  country,  into  Holy  land, 
where  the  fresh  air  is  like  unto  the  breath  of  God,  where  the  sunny  houses 
are  situated  in  the  open  fields  and  on  forest  edges,  where  men  have  strong, 
clear  eyes  and  lofty,  peaceful  thoughts.  He  knows  what  stands  in  the  way 
of  the  progress  of  the  workingmen.  They  avoid  and  hector  one  another. 
In  no  class  is  there  so  much  jealousy  as  in  the  workingman's  class.  The 
life  they  lead  drives  earnestness  out  of  the  daily  work  and  reverence  out  of 
life.  There  is  no  desire  to  progress.  Looking  for  relief,  they  stare  upon 
the  officials  and  academicians.  They  should  know  that  active  energy  can 
further  their  cause  more  than  plodding  learning. 

Frenssen  rightly  discerns  the  importance  of  the  economic  revolution 
of  Germany.  A  revolution  v^hich  is  affecting  all  classes,  yes,  springing  from 
all  classes.  A  revolution  evident  in  every  artery  of  German  life.  Along 
with  this  great  economic  revolution  comes  the  worst  religious  confusion 
at  the  very  time  when  scientific  investigation  has  undermined  the  dogmas  of 
churches.  Men  are  without  religion,  and  therefore  bitter  and  discontented. 
He  emphasizes  the  confusion  in  the  entire  domain  of  morals,  in  art,  in  edu- 
cation and  how,  as  in  every  century,  there  passes  a  spirit  of  unrest  through 
the  people  —  a  fever,  but  a  fever  which  leads  to  health.  He  has  caught 
the  longing  of  the  people  to  rejuvenate  the  three  powerful  forces  which 
it  begets  —  government,  religion,  morality.  He  has  observed  a  will,  a  wish, 
permeating  the  people  to  come  to  nature,  to  a  simple  religion,  to  social 
justice,  to  a  noble  Germanic  humanity.  Frenssen  holds,  however,  that 
a  regeneration  is  impossible  as  long  as  the  foundation  upon  which  it  must 
rest  is  false.     For  him  this  foundation  is  religion,  the  faith  of  Christ,  the  man. 

In  'Jorn  Uhl'  Frenssen  attacks  the  pastors  in  the  pulpit  because  they 
do  not  know  life  and  the  needs  of  the  hearers.  In  'Hilligenlei*  he  reveals 
the  attitude  of  the  people  toward  religion.  This  attitude  is  a  pitiful  one 
and  has  its  natural  causes.  One  may  shudder,  but  it  is  true,  not  only  for 
Hilligenlei  and  Berlin,  but  for  America. 

The  children  make  God  the  servant  of  their  own  will,  and  half  of  them 
do  not  believe  what  is  said  in  the  confirmation  class.  The  words  of  Anna 
Boje,  as  a  child,  are  touching  and  natural:  'I  believe  everything  because 
the  pastor  says  it.     But,  do  you  know  what  makes  me  sad  .?     God  is  really 


WARREN  WASHBURN  FLORER  381 

a  triune  God,  not  so  ?  Sometimes  I  am  so  afraid,  because  at  night  I  am  so 
tired  and  do  not  keep  the  right  order.  I  beHeve  I  pray  least  to  the  Holy 
Ghost,  and  he  certainly  is  angry  with  me.' 

Even  the  common  workingmen  question  the  teachings  about  the  Virgin 
Mary,  deeming  them  impossible.  They  do  not  respect  the  teachings  of 
Christ  because  the  church  does  not  represent  the  Savior  as  human,  but  as 
a  golden  image.  Again,  the  church  seems  to  be  on  the  side  of  the  rich  and 
has  not  a  v^ord  or  deed  for  the  poor. 

All  progressive  elements  among  the  people  —  the  workingmen,  the 
seamen,  the  merchants,  the  students,  the  scholars  and  the  artists  question 
the  dogmas  of  the  church.  The  entire  folk  is  falling  away  from  the  old 
faith  of  the  church.  The  foundation  of  life  is  false,  because  the  people 
have  no  faith.  The  minds  of  men  go  restlessly  from  one  meaning  to  another. 
The  priests  have  a  false  control  over  men,  and  error  reigns  supreme. 

Frenssen  relates  of  one,  who  in  the  midst  of  these  conditions,  restless 
and  full  of  hope,  is  searching  for  the  Holy.  He  thus  advances  another  step. 
In  *  J"rn  Uhl'  he  demonstrated  that  the  trials  our  people  undergo  for  us  are 
worth  the  trouble'  and  that  simple,  deep  life  is  worth  relating  and  struggling 
for.  Here  amidst  all  these  struggles  is  an  additional  one,  a  search  for  the 
Holy  from  childhood  on,  the  task  of  Kai  Jans,  the  task  of  Gustav  Frenssen. 

Step  by  step  Frenssen,  with  almost  laborious  painstaking,  prepares 
Kai  Jans  to  write  the  life  of  Christ.  Kai  Jans  experiences  the  need  and 
oppression  of  a  long  life  and  of  the  entire  nation.  The  poet  equips  him 
with  those  pictures  of  life  which  Christ  must  have  witnessed  from  childhood 
on,  in  the  country,  in  the  village,  and  in  the  city.  He  initiates  him  into 
the  advance  guard  of  higher  criticism.  But  with  all  his  learning  Kai  Jans 
retains  his  childlike  faith  and  simple  heart.  He  also  experiences  the  secret 
of  the  most  beautiful  of  God's  nature,  the  love  of  a  pure  girl.  But,  in  order 
to  write  the  life  of  Christ,  which  is  a  drama,  Kai  Jans  is  not  permitted  to 
be  happy  in  this  love.  Otherwise  his  Frau  Sorge  would  leave  him,  and 
therewith  his  interest  in  humanity  as  a  whole.  Peculiar  admixture  —  this 
preparation  for  'The  Life  of  Christ,  represented  according  to  German 
investigations  —  the  foundation  of  German  regeneration.' 

The  *  manuscript,'  the  twenty-sixth  chapter,  which  is  absolutely 
necessary  as  an  organic  part  of  the  novel,  is  the  storm  center  of  criticism. 
It  has  been  attacked  by  hardshcllcd  orthodoxy,  higher  criticism  and  atheism. 
It  has  been  received  with  misgivings  and  exultant  joy.  Withal  it  is  a  natural 
product  of  the  religious  reformation  which  is  abroad  in  Germany.  Thou- 
sands of  Cjermans  have  read  this  life  of  Christ  as  Hcinke  Boje  did.  Their 
thoughts  have  run  to  him  of  whom  tiiey  have  read,  to  the  pure,  vigorous 


382  HILLIGENLEI 

man,  the  most  beautiful  ot  the  children  of  men.  Their  faith  has  clung  as 
a  vine  to  his  faith.  Many  good  people  have  fallen  away  from  the  poet  of 
'  Jorn  Uhl.'  And  some  who  stood  in  awe  before  the  eternal  Son  of  God 
have  lost  this  fear  and  have  entered  upon  evil  ways.  This  chapter  has  left 
a  deep  impression  upon  the  minds  of  Germany  and  upon  the  religious 
revolution. 

It  is  a  powerful  chapter,  full  of  the  very  life  of  Christ,  full  of  Christ's 
grand  teachings.  It  leads  us  away  from  Slesvig-Holstein  to  the  country 
in  which  Christ  lived,  wandered  and  taught.  We  feel  a  faith,  pure,  strong 
and  good.  We  see  the  intense  conflicts  of  that  social  revolution  which  has 
left  its  impression  on  the  development  of  humanity.  We  behold  the  simple 
and  grand  life  of  Christ.  We  shudder  at  the  strongly  affecting  death  of 
Christ.  We  are  carried  away  in  joy  and  compassion  by  this  drama  of  life, 
stripped  of  wonders  and  supernatural  elements.  It  leads  us  to  the  footsteps 
and  back  again  to  our  own  decade  and  to  our  own  life. 

The  heart  of  the  reader  beats  with  the  heart  of  the  poet.  But,  we  follow 
the  poet's  own  advice  in  '  Jorn  Uhl,'  read  through  Matthew  and  Mark  to 
see  whether  or  not  the  poet  has  swallowed  a  goodly  piece  of  the  evangel  and 
misinterpreted  another;  to  see  whether  the  connecting  links  are  not  too 
short.     Involuntarily  we  are  searching  for  the  Holy. 

When  one  looks  upon  the  'Life'  as  a  whole,  one  naturally  thinks  of 
Frenssen's  criticism  of  the  world's  great  philosophers  and  applies  it  to 
himself:  'There  is  much  "Dunkles  und  Kindlich-Wirres'  in  him.'  When 
one  thinks  of  the  poet's  criticism  of  Paul,  how  under  the  inspiration  of  his 
wonderful  vision  he  made  out  of  Christ  a  divine  being,  an  eternal  wonder- 
man,  one  fears  that  Frenssen  is  likewise  transported  by  his  'Mairchen'  of 
nature  and  human  life. 

One  wishes  that  Frenssen  had  rewritten  his  epitome  of  the  history  of 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  years;  that  he  had  left  to  the  reason  of  the  reader 
the  firstly  and  secondly  of  the  preacher  and  the  eliminations  of  the  debater; 
that  he  had  left  to  the  future  his  exultant  prophecy.  If  this  faith  is  certain, 
if  this  foundation  is  solid,  school  children,  youih,  artists,  scholars,  pastors, 
state  and  Christianity  will  experience  the  joys  prophesied. 

Is  the  foundation  which  Frenssen  gives  certain  and  solid  ?  We  fear 
not.  The  writer  himself  was  too  uncertain.  He  was  too  'grubelnd.'  We 
miss  the  inspiration  of  Paul,  the  certainty  of  the  angry  Luther,  the  insight 
of  the  sceptical  old  philosopher  of  Weimar,  the  exactness  of  modern  scholar- 
ship, the  fullness  of  life  of  a  forceful  man.  But  as  we  lay  this  novel  aside, 
so  lull  of  treasures  for  the  future  of  the  German  people  and  literature,  we 
carry  with  us  the  encouraging  assurance:  'Neues  Korn  spriesst  auf. ' 


PEER  GYNT— AN  INTERPRETATION 

By  Jane  Dransfield  Stone 

AFTER  writing  'Brand,  Ibsen  went  into  southern  Italy, 
and  threw  himself  into  the  composition  of  'Peer  Gynt.' 
'  It  is  wild  and  formless,'  he  writes  of  it '  and  written  without 
regard  to  consequences.'  Yet  as  with  all  his  dramas, 
it  had  lain  a  long  time  in  embryo  in  the  poet's  mind.  The 
same  mood  of  indignation  against  his  countrymen,  the 
same  criticism  of  the  Norwegian  character  which  had 
resulted  in  'Brand'  gave  birth  also  to  'Peer  Gynt';  though  Ibsen  himself 
scarcely  realized  this,  and  said  in  a  letter  to  Hegel,  that  if 'the  Norwegians 
of  the  present  day  recognize  themselves  in  the  character  of  Peer  Gynt,  that 
is  the  good  people's  own  affair.'*  The  pure  poetry  of  his  creation  appealed 
to  him  more  than  its  polemic,  and  he  constantly  pleaded  for  the  book  to 
be  enjoyed  as  a  work  of  the  imagination.  He  writes,  'I  learn  that  the  book 
created  much  e.xcitement  in  Norway.'  This  does  not  trouble  me  in  the 
least;  but  both  there  and  in  Denmark  they  have  discovered  much  more 
satire  in  it  than  was  intended  by  me.  Why  can  they  not  read  the  book  as 
a  poem  ?  For  as  such  I  wrote  it.'**  The  criticism  of  its  art  form  he  met 
with  a  prophetic  sense  of  its  future  justification.  'My  book  is  poetry,  and 
if  it  is  not,  then  it  will  be.  The  conception  of  poetry  shall  be  made  to  con- 
form to  the  book.'*** 

Thus  it  is  not  strange  that  two  works  of  such  seemingly  diverse  char- 
acter should  have  been  produced  at  the  same  period  of  development,  and 
at  so  short  an  interval.  'Brand'  was  published  in  March,  1866:  Peer 
Gynt'  in  November,  1867.  Yet  though  similar  in  ethical  bearing,  the 
atmosphere  of  the  two  poems  is  totally  different.  'Brand'  is  deep:  'Peer 
Gynt'  is  wide.  'Brand'  is  cold,  clear-cut,  and  defined.  The  ice  winds  of 
the  north  blow  down  through  it,  chilling  us  to  the  soul.  'Peer  Gynt'  is 
warm,  glowing  with  color,  the  strange  flowering  of  a  rich  imagination. 
The  greatness  of  the  work  grows  upon  one.  Upon  first  reading  it,  one  may 
be  carried  away  with  the  bewildering  conceits,  the  play  of  wit,  the  droll 
situations,  the  abandonment  to  the  spirit  of  pure  fantasy;  but  it  is  only 
after  study  that  the  deeper  meanings  come  to  light,  and  the  work  is  lifted 

•  24th  February,  1868.  ••  Ibid.  •••  To  Hjornson,  Hth  December,  1867. 

3^3 


384  PKER   GYNT— AN  INTERPRETATION 

out  of  its  provincial,  or  Scandinavian  aspect  to  its  position  as  the  greatest 
drama  since  'Faust.'  So  Scandinavian  in  tone  that  Ibsen  feared  it  would 
not  be  understood  out  of  Norway  and  Denwark,  yet  it  has  made  its  appeal  to 
all  peoples  through  its  deep  searching  into  the  human  heart. 

Who  and  what  then  is  Peer  Gynt  ?  The  poem  has  its  roots  deep  in 
the  folk-lore  of  the  north.  Ibsen  describes  his  hero  as  'one  of  those  half- 
mvthical,  fanciful  characters  existing  in  the  annals  of  the  Norwegian 
peasantry  of  modern  times,'  and  again  as  a  'real  person  who  lived  in  Gud- 
brandsdal,  probably  at  the  end  of  the  last,  or  the  beginning  of  this  century. 
His  name  is  still  well-known  among  the  peasants  there:  but  of  his  exploits 
not  much  more  is  known  than  is  to  be  found  in  Asojornsen's  'Norwegian 
F airy-Tale  Book,'  in  the  section.  'Pictures  from  the  mountains.'  'Thus 
I  have  not  had  ver}'  much  to  build  upon,  but  so  much  the  more  liberty  has 
been  left  me.'*  The  man  Peer  Gynt,  therefore,  is  so  enshrouded  in  the 
mists  of  oblivion  that  the  character  Peer  Gynt  is  far  more  real  and  we  feel 
that  in  him  Ibsen  has  added  another  to  the  great  living  fictitious  personages 
of  all  time. 

Peer's  character,  as  always  in  Ibsen,  has  marked  inherited  traits. 
Descended  from  a  formerly  w^ell-to-do  family  of  the  upper  peasant  class, 
Peer  and  his  mother  live  in  a  poverty  lighted  only  by  memories  of  former 
magnificance.  Ibsen  says  that  there  is  much  in  the  poem  reminiscent  of  his 
own  youth,  and  consequently  in  the  pictures  of  the  feasts  in  the  hall  of  the 
rich  old  Jon  Gynt  the  poet  may  be  said  to  have  harked  back  to  the  time 
when  his  father  was  a  wealthy  merchant  of  Skein,  and  he  lived  in  the  midst 
of  a  prodigal  display.  We  have  his  own  word,  too,  that  his  mother,  with 
necessary  exaggerations,  served  as  model  for  Ase.  Perhaps  this  may  account 
for  the  kindly  touch  with  which  old  'Ase  is  drawn.'  A  foolish,  fond,  scold, 
loving  her  son,  but  never  disciplining  him,  abusing  him  roundly  to  his  face, 
but  his  staunchest  ally  in  his  absence,  praying  in  the  same  breath  that  he 
may  be  punished,  and  may  be  saved  from  punishment.  She  has  implicit 
faith  in  his  future  and  his  own  dreams  of  greatness. 

'Thou  art  come  of  great  things.  Peer  Gynt, 
And  great  things  shall  come  of  thee.' 

When  we  first  see  Peer,  he  is  a  strong  young  man  of  twenty,  a  roman- 
cing, ragged  braggadocio,  with  a  lilt  on  his  tongue,  and  a  gleam  in  his  eye, — 
a  good-for-nothing,  who  has  never  learned  an  honest  trade,  and  cannot  even 
mend  the  broken  window  panes  in  his  mother's  house.  He  can  tell  you 
a  fine  tale,  however.     Listen  to  that  ride  of  his  over  Gendean  Edge,  and  his 

•  To  F.  Hegel,  8th  August,  1867. 


JANE   DRANSFIELD  STONE  385 

wild  leap  on  the  buck's  back  from  the  mountain-top  down  into  the  black 
tarn  so  far  below. 

'  Buck  from  over,  buck  from  under, 
In  a  moment  clashed  together. 
Scattering  foam-flecks  all  around.' 

So  potent  is  the  spell  he  cast  upon  his  auditors  that  you  do  not  wonder 
his  mother  believes  him  until  suddenly  it  daw^ns  upon  her  that  her  son's 
wonderful  experience  is  only  the  rehearsal  of  a  folk  tale  she  had  told  him 
herself,  in  those  days  when  she  crooned  fairy  tales  to  him  to  drown  their 
sense  of  wretchedness  and  care. 

And  why  does  he  tell  this  story  .?  To  save  himself  a  scolding,  since  for 
six  weeks,  in  the  busiest  season  of  the  year,  he  has  been  lurking  in  the 
mountains  on  a  fruitless  hunting  trip,  returning  without  gun,  without  game, 
and  with  clothes  torn,  having  lost  meantime  his  chance  to  win  a  rich  girl, 
Ingrid  of  Hegstad,  for  his  bride,  since  even  now  the  wedding  is  going  on. 
Even  so  early  in  his  career,  he  tries  to  elude  the  unpleasant  consequences 
of  his  own  acts,  a  trait  he  inherits.  'It's  a  terrible  thing  to  look  fate  in  the 
eyes,'  says  Ase  and  to  her  son  it  becomes  constantly  harder. 

Throughout  the  first  act,  the  picture  of  Peer  is  that  of  a  pure  romancer, 
indulging  in  day-dreams  of  his  own  future  greatness,  when  he  shall  have 
become  emperor  of  the  whole  world,  exploiting  his  wonderful  adventures 
before  his  incredulous  companions,  reckless,  heedless,  and  daring,  but  as 
yet  undebased.  When  Solveig  comes  in,  with  her  modest  downcast 
glances,  and  her  psalm-book  wrapped  in  a  handkerchief,  her  purity  attracts 
him  irresistibly,  and  could  he  have  been  content  to  have  won  her  gently, 
he  might  have  found  in  her  then  his  'kaiserdom,'  might  in  her  have  become 
great.  But  Solveig  rejects  his  too  swift  advances.  His  companions  laugh 
at  his  tales,  and  their  laughter  bites.  Scorn  and  rejection  wound  his  pride, 
forcing  him  to  do  some  daring  deed.  Some  of  old  Ase's  tales  had  been  of 
bride-rape.  The  least  hint  is  enough,  and  the  act  closes  with  Peer  stealing 
Ingrid  from  the  store-house,  shouldering  her  bodily,  and  running  off  with 
her  up  the  hill,  old  Ase  left  scolding  below. 

In  the  second  act  a  subtle  change  for  the  worse  comes  over  Peer.  The 
descent,  however,  is  gradual.  He  tires  of  Ingrid,  and  deserts  her,  but 
still  remembers  Solveig. 

'Devil  take  the  tribe  of  women 
All  but  one.' 

When  he  plunges  into  the  low  amours  with  the  three  saeter  girls,  it  is 
'Heavy  of  heart,  and  wanton  of  mind. 
The  eyes  full  of  laughter,  the  throat  of  tears.' 


386  PEER  GYNT— AN   INTERPRETATION 

After  his  escapade  with  the  Dovre  king's  daughter,  however,  the 
Green  Clad  One,  there  is  httle  to  hke  in  Peer  except  his  very  human  nianoeu- 
vering  always  to  come  out  on  the  top.  The  Troll  philosophy  dominates 
him,  even  though  he  repudiates  the  idea  of  complete  subjection  to  troUdom. 

It  may  be  well  to  pause  here,  to  consider  the  significance  of  the  troll 
element  of  the  play.  The  Dovre  kingdom  seems  as  funny  a  topsy-turvy 
world  as  any  creation  of  Lewis  Carrol's,  but  with  far  more  meaning.  Trolls 
are  creatures  of  purely  northern  mythology,  corresponding  in  their  milder 
aspects  to  the  English  brownies.  But  Ibsen  uses  them  as  the  exponents 
of  absolute  selfishness  —  that  part  of  human  nature  which  never  rises  above 
itself,  sees  nothing  but  as  it  desires  to  see  it,  and  has  no  will  but  self-will. 
The  Dovre  king's  motto,  'Troll  to  thyself  be  enough,'  and  the  Boyg's 
'roundabout'  are  the  keynotes  of  their  philosophy. 

The  Boyg  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  puzzling  elements  of  the 
play.  Archer  says  that  'the  idea  of  this  vague,  shapeless,  ubiquitous, 
inevitable,  invulnerable  thing  was  what  chiefly  fascinated  the  poet's  imagi- 
nation in  the  legend  of  Peer  Gynt.'  When  it  is  killed  it  is  still  alive,  un- 
wounded  w  hen  hurt,  is  both  out  and  in,  forward  and  back,  conquers  without 
force.  It  is  a  lion  and  women  in  one,  yet  whatever  it  is,  it  is  ever  itself, 
and  is  only  vanquished,  not  by  physical  might,  but  troll-fashion,  by  the 
power  of  the  spirit,  symbolized  in  the  ringing  of  church  bells,  and  the 
prayers  of  women. 

Recalling  'Brand,'  Georg  Brandes  identifies  this  mysterious  being 
with  the  spirit  of  Compromise.  Mr.  Wicksteed,  viewing  it  in  the  light  of 
Scene  12,  Act  IV,  calls  it  the  sphinx-riddle  of  life.  One  hesitates  to  cata- 
gorize  so  vague  a  thing,  and  to  each  attentive  reader  the  Boyg  must  make 
a  different  appeal.  To  me  it  means  St.  Paul's  carnal  mind  of  man  — 
'mortal  mind'  —  a  Christian  Scientist  would  say  —  that  element  in  man 
which  is  purely  human,  which  baffles  his  best  desires,  which  suggests  that 
he  go  'roundabout'  to  escape  his  difficulties,  rather  than  through  them, 
and  which  is  only  overcome  through  spirituality.  It  ever  vaunts  itself  to  be 
a  great  /,  a  great  myself,  but  is  in  reality  nothing. 

The  third  act  shows  further  the  deterioration  in  Peer's  character,  and 
his  inability  to  face  the  unpleasant.  Banished  to  the  woods  as  an  outlaw 
in  consequence  of  the  bride-rape,  Peer  has  never  been  forgotten  by  Solveig, 
who  though  rejecting  his  too  swift  advances  has  nevertheless  established 
in  her  soul  an  ideal  of  Peer,  which  she  worships.  Thinking  it  was  the  real 
Peer  she  loves,  she  forsakes  her  dear  father,  mother,  and  sister,  and  comes 
to  him  in  the  forest;  Peer  greets  her  with  joy. 

'Solveig!  let  me  look  at  you  —  but  not  too  near! 
Only  look  at  you!     Oh,  but  you  are  bright  and  pure, — 


JANE   DRANSFIELD   STONE  387 

Let  me  lift  you, —  Oh,  but  you  are  fine  and  light. 
Let  me  carry  you  Solveig  —  and  I'll  never  be  tired.' 

But  in  the  midst  of  his  rejoicing,  along  comes  the  Green  Clad  One 
with  an  ugly  little  boy,  and  tells  him  that  this  is  his  child,  'lame  in  his  leg, 
as  Peer  was  lame  in  his  soul,'  begotten  only  of  lustful  thoughts  and  desires, 
the  way  of  generation  in  the  Dovre  kingdom.  She  tells  Peer  he  may  marry 
Solveig  if  he  will,  but  that  she  is  his  wife,  and  must  have  her  seat  by  his  side, 
though  Solveig  be  there  too.  In  this  predicament,  what  is  Peer's  course? 
Repentance  :  The  word  comes  to  him  from  long-forgotten  years,  and  has 
now  no  meaning.  Expiation  ?  Why,  it  would  take  whole  years  to  fight 
his  way  through.  The  Boyg  said,  'roundabout,'  and  the  Boyg  philosophy 
conquers.  Without  a  word  of  explanation,  bidding  her  only  wait  his  return, 
Peer  takes  to  his  heels,  leaving  the  woman  who  loves  him  to  bear  alone  the 
long  years  of  life.  Probably  it  was  better  for  Solveig  that  he  did,  never- 
theless that  does  not  exonerate  Peer. 

Solveig  is  the  beautiful  element  of  the  play.  Every  scene  in  which  she 
appears  is  lifted  at  once  into  the  realm  of  pure  poetry.  She  is  so  pure  and 
so  good.  As  Agnes  might  have  been  Brand's  salvation,  bringing  peace 
to  his  restless  soul,  could  he  but  have  accepted  her  vision  of  life,  so  she, 
who  made  it  a  holy  day  when  one  looked  at  her  might  have  uplifted  Peer 
had  he  been  capable  of  being  true  to  her. 

This  third  act  contains  another  great  scene  —  the  death  scene  of  Ase, 
one  of  the  strangest  death  scenes  in  all  literature  —  fantastic,  tender,  weird, 
yet  infinitely  pathetic  and  real.  Poor  ugly  old  Ase!  Because  her  son  has 
been  declared  an  outlaw,  all  her  property,  such  as  she  had,  has  been  taken 
from  her  by  the  bailiff.  Even  the  house  is  hers  only  until  her  death,  and 
now  she  lies  on  the  little  hard  board  bed  Peer  used  as  a  child,  moanine  and 
tossing,  and  longing  to  see  Peer  once  more  before  she  dies.  Not  a  word  of 
reproach  shall  he  have  from  her.  It  was  not  his  fault.  It  was  the  drink 
at  the  wedding  feast  that  crazed  his  head.  So  Peer  enters  to  look  in  upon 
his  mother  for  the  last  time,  before  embarking  for  some  foreign  land.  He 
sees  his  mother's  condition,  but  death  is  horrible  to  him,  as  we  see  in  Act  V 
in  his  interview  with  the  Strange  Passenger.  He  will  listen  to  no  word  of 
parting,  ignores  her  request  for  the  comfort  of  the  prayer-book,  will  chat 
only  of 'this,  and  that,'  and  finally,  seeing  her  great  distress,  mounts  a  chair, 
and  spirits  her  away  on  the  'fleet  foot  horses'  to  the  world  beyond. 

'lo  the  castle  west  of  the  moon  and  the  castle  east   of  the   sun  — 
I  o  Soria-Moria  Castle.' 
where 

'The  King  and  the  Prince  give  a  feast.' 


388  PEER  GVNT— AN   INTERPRETATION 

Here,  too.  Peer  is  iinnhle  to  face  the  unpleasant.  Nevertheless,  as  he 
bends  over  his  tncnher,  kissing  her  thanks  for  both  'beatings  and  lullabys,' 
we  Hnd  him  inhnitely  more  human  than  Brand,  cruelly  deserting  his  mother 
in  her  last  hour,  from  rigid  devotion  to  principle. 

Between  acts  three  and  four  nearly  thirty  years  elapse,  and  when  next 
we  see  Peer  he  is  a  handsome  portly  gentleman  of  fifty.  AH  the  glamour 
of  the  youthful  Peer  has  vanished.  He  is  still  a  romancer,  but  the  touch 
of  poetrv  is  gone.  He  still  dreams  of  becoming  'kaiser'  of  the  whole  world, 
but  now  on  a  basis  of  gold.  He  has  become  rich,  selling  slaves  to  America, 
and  idols  to  China.  He  has  picked  up  learning,  and  a  cosmopolitan  dash 
from  every  country  of  Europe.  He  has  grown  pious,  too,  keeping  a  sort 
of  debit  and  credit  with  God,  so  that  tor  every  export  of  idols  to  China  in 
the  spring,  he  sent  out  missionaries  in  the  fall. 

'What  could  I  do.''     To  stop  the  trade 

With  Ciiina  was  impossible. 

A  plan  I  hit  on  —  opened  straightway 

A  new  trade  with  the  self-same  land. 

I  shipped  off  idols  every  spring. 

Each  autumn  sent  forth  missionaries. 

Supplying  them  with  all  they  needed. 

As  stockings.  Bibles,  rum,  and  rice.' 
Mr.  Cotton. — 

'Yes,  at  a  profit  ? ' 
Peer.— 

'Why,  of  course. 

It  prospered.     Dauntlessly  they  toiled. 

For  every  idol  that  w^as  sold 

They  got  a  coolie  well  baptized, 

So  that  the  effect  was  neutralized.' 
Vain  and  ridiculous  as  Peer  has  become,  we  laugh  at  him  not  with 
him,  as  in  a  series  of  brilliant  kaleidoscopic  scenes,  we  seen  him  storming 
on  the  Moroccan  coast,  because  his  sycophant  friends  have  run  off  with 
his  gold:  —  treed  by  monkeys  in  the  desert:  —  plucked  by  Anitra,  his  Ara- 
bian amour;. — and  finally  crowned  as  'kaiser'  in  a  mad  house  in  Cairo. 
The  Gvntish  Self  stands  complete.  Imagining  himself  master  of  every 
situation,  he  is  in  reality  but  the  merest  will-of-the-wisp,  drifting  hither 
and  thither  on  every  wind  of  chance.  Yet  he  considers  himself  a  success, 
for  has  he  not  aKvays  been  himself? 

This  'being  one's  self  is  the  keynote  of  the  poem.     What  does  Ibsen 
mean  ':     That  to  him  it  was  the  paramount  issue  of  life,  there  is  little  doubt. 


JANE  DRANSFIELD  STONE  3^9 

He  writes  to  Bjornson  —  'So  to  conduct  one's  life  as  to  realize  one's  self — 
this  seems  to  me  the  highest  attainment  possible  to  a  human  being.  Itjs 
the  task  of  one  and  all  of  us,  but  most  of  us  bungle  it.'*  And  agam,—  'I 
believe  that  there  is  nothing  else  and  nothing  better  for  us  all  to  do  than 
in  spirit  and  in  truth  to  reahze  our  selves.'**  And,  'The  great  thing  is 
to  become  honest  and  truthful  in  deahng  with  one's  self—  not  to  determme 
to  do  this  or  determine  to  do  that,  but  to  do  what  one  must  do  because  one 

is  one's  self.'*** 

The  character  of  Peer  Gynt  is  the  negative  working  out  of  this  theme. 
In  Peer  we  see  that  'being  one's  self  is  not.  To  Peer,  to  'be  himself 
meant  to  carr)'  out  each  momentar)-  impulse:  never  to  burn  a  bridge  behind 
him,  but  always  to  evade  responsibility,  to  blame  not  himself  for  his  failures, 
but  circumstances. 

'To  stand  with  choice-free  fooi 
Amid  the  treacherous  snares  of  Hfe, — 
To  know  that  ever  in  the  rear 
A  bridge  for  our  retreat  stands  open 
This  theory  has  borne  me  on. 
And  given  my  whole  career  its  color.' 
More  or  less  we  are  all  of  us  Peer  Gyms.     Our  lives  are  not  determined 
by  a  willed  fidelity  to  an  ideal,  but  like  Peer  we  are  tossed  here  and  there 
by  fleeting  ambitions    and   momentary  desires.     Ibsen  has  no  sympathy 
with   his  trifling  attitude  toward   life.     In   his  early  plays,  especially  the 
historical  series,  he  talks  much  of  fulfilling  one's  calling,  of  one's  divine 
mission  in  life.     Is  every  one,  then,  destined  to  a  great  career  ?     The  poem 
has  two  direct  answers  to  this  question.     First,  in  the  episode  of  the  poor 
peasant  who  cut  oflF  his  finger,  thereby  incapacitating  himself  for  mihtary 
service  for  which  he  was  drafted,  because  he  knew  he  was  needed  at  home. 
'No  patriot  was  he.     Both  for  church  and  state 
A  fruitless  tree.     But  there,  on  the  upland  ridge, 
In  the  small  circle  where  he  saw  his  calling. 
There  he  was  great,  because  he  was  himself.' 
This  is  Goethe's  'In  der  Beschrankung  zeigt  sich  erst  der  Meister'— and 
Matthew  Arnold's  —  'In  their  own  tasks  all  their  powers  pouring.' 

Solveig's  faith  is  also  an  answer.  After  the  scene  in  which  Peer  is 
fleeced,  then  deserted  by  Anitra,  for  an  instant  we  are  transported  again 
to  the  north,  and  look  upon  Solvcig,  now  a  middle-aged  woman,  sitting 
before  the  door  of  the  hut  Peer  had  built  in  the  forest  and  singing  as  she  spins. 

•8th  August,  1882.  ••  To  Tlieodcr   Carpari,   •llKh   .lune,  1884.  •**  To   Laura 

Keller,  11  th  June.  1870. 


390  PEER  GYNT— AN   INTERPRETATION 

'Maybe  both  the  winter  and  spring  will  pass  by, 
And  the  next  summer  too,  and  the  whole  of  the  year:  — 
But  thou  wilt  come  one  day,  that  I  know  full  well: 
And  I  will  await  thee  as  I  promised  thee  of  old. 

[Calls  the  goatSy  spins,  and  sings  again.] 
God  strengthen  thee,  whereso  thou  goest  in  the  world! 
God  dadden  thee,  if  at  his  footstool  thou  stand! 
Here  will  I  await  thee  till  thou  comest  agam: 
And  if  thou  wait  up  yonder,  then  there  we'll  meet,  my  friend.' 
In  her  beautiful  fidelity  to  the  ideal  Peer  within  her  heart,  lies  Solveig's 
greatness,  and  finally  Peer's  salvation.     So  that  we  see  that  Ibsen's  idea 
is  neither  selfish  idealism,  as  Brand's,  nor  selfish  realism,  as  Peer  Gynt's, 
but  the  unselfish  working  out  of  the  best  in  us :  —  the  attainment  of  spiritual 
libertv,  and  wholeness  of  life. 

The  fourth  act  is  clever  satire,  the  fifth  pure  and  great  poetry.  So 
slender  are  the  threads,  however,  that  bind  it  to  earth,  that  the  reader  is 
inclined  to  regard  its  events  as  merely  symbolic.  Such  was  not  Ibsen's 
intention.  Even  Mr.  Clemens  Petersen's  statement  that  the  Strange 
Passenger  symbolized  terror  aroused  Isben's  anger.  'He  (Clemens  Peter- 
sen) says  that  the  Strange  Passenger  is  symbolic  of  terror.  Supposing  that 
I  had  been  about  to  be  executed  and  that  such  an  explanation  would  have 
saved  my  life,  it  would  never  have  occurred  to  me.  I  never  thought  of  such 
a  thing.  I  stuck  in  the  scene  as  a  mere  caprice.  And  tell  me  now,  is  Peer 
Gynt  himself  not  a  personality  complete  and  individual  ?  I  know  that 
he  is.'* 

Briefly,  the  fifth  act  may  be  outlined  as  follows:  Peer,  now  a  miserly 
old  man,  is  returning  to  Norway.  Just  off  the  coast  he  is  shipwrecked,  and 
saves  his  life  by  knocking  the  ship's  cook  off  the  little  boat  to  which  they 
were  both  clinging.  Peer  escapes,  and  returns  to  his  old  home,  where  he 
finds  himself  but  a  tradition.  He  seeks  the  forest,  the  scene  of  his  outlawry, 
where  he  comes  upon  Solveig  still  waiting  for  him,  but  he  flees  from  her. 
The  Button-Moulder  comes  along  with  his  casting-ladle,  looking  for  one 
Peer  Gynt,  whom  his  master  has  ordered  him  to  melt  up  along  with  other 
spoilt  goods  into  something  new.  Peer  resents  this  '  Gynt-cessation '  with 
all  his  heart.  Either  one  of  two  things  he  must  prove  to  save  himself, 
either  that  he  has  always  been  himself,  or  that  he  is  an  exceptional  sinner. 
Peer.  — 

One  question  only: 
What  is  it,  at  bottom,  this  "being  one's  self"  ? 

»  To  Bjornson,  9th  December,  1867. 


JANE  DRANSFIELD  STONE  391 

The  Button-Moulder. — 

'To  be  one  self  is :  to  slay  oneself. 
But  on  you  that  answer  is  doubtless  lost: 
And  therefore  we'll  say:  to  stand  forth  everywhere 
With  Master's  intention  displayed  like  a  signboard.' 
Peer  can  not  claim  he  has  been  himself  according  to  this  standard: 
nor  can  he  prove  himself  a  great  sinner. 
The  Button-Moulder. — 

'You're  not  one  thing  nor  the  other  then,  only  so-so. 
A  sinner  of  really  grandiose  style 
Is  nowadays  not  to  be  met  on  the  highways. 
It  wants  much  more  than  merely  to  wallow  in  mire. 
For  both  vigor  and  earnestness  go  to  a  sin.' 
Is  there  no  one  in  heaven  or  hell,  then,  to  save  him  ^.     In  his  terror  he  remem- 
bers the  one  against  whom  he  has  really  sinned.     Surely  Solveig  will  have 
a  sin-list  for  him,  but  when  he  throws  himself  before  her  to  hear  his  doom, 
she  has  no  word  of  blame  for  him. 
Peer.— 

'Cry  out  all  my  sins  and  my  trespasses!* 
Solveig. — 

'In  nought  hast  thou  sinned,  oh  my  own  only  boy!' 
Peer.— 

'Cry  aloud  my  crime!' 
Solveig. — 

'Thou  hast  made  all  my  life  as  a  beautiful  song. 
Blessed  be  thou  that  at  last  thou  hast  come!' 
The  Button-Moulder  disappears,  and  the  poem  ends  with  Peer  lying  in 
Solveig's  arms,  a  saved  man. 

In  the  fifth  act,  then,  is  the  birth  of  the  true  Peer  Gynt.  His  conception 
occurs  in  the  conversation  with  the  Strange  Passenger  during  the  shipwreck, 
when  there  is  presented  for  the  first  time  to  his  mind  the  idea  of  dread,  or 
as  Mr.  Archer  has  it  in  the  footnote  to  his  translation  of  this  passage  (the 
translation  I  should  like  to  state  I  have  used  throughout)  'the  conviction 
of  sin.'  It  is  the  moral  sense  of  the  soul's  obligation  to  goodness.  Peer 
does  not  express  this  at  once,  however,  and  it  is  found  first  definitely  in  his 
famous  comparison  of  himself  to  an  onion,  which  like  himself  is  but  an 
infinite  number  of  swathings,  with  never  a  kernel.  Solveig's  fidelity  to 
him  makes  him  realize,  but  too  late,  that  in  her  heart  had  been  his  kaiser- 
dom,  and  the  exquisite  thread-ball  scene  in  which  the  thoughts  he  should 
have  thought,  and  the  deeds  he  should  have  done  rise  to  reproach  him. 


392  PEER   GYNT— AN   INTERPRETATION 

begins  with  his  own  searching  analysis  of  himself  as  a  Svhited  sepulchre' 
with  'earnest  shunned'  and  'repentance  dreaded.'  At  last  he  sees  that  his 
life  has  been  unworthy  of  perpetuation. 

'  So  unspeakably  poor,  then,  a  soul  can  go 

Back  to  nothingness,  into  the  grey  of  the  mist. 

Thou  beautiful  earth,  be  not  angry  with  me 

That  I  trampled  thy  grasses  to  no  avail. 

Thou  beautiful  sun,  thou  hast  squandered  away 

Thy  glory  of  light  in  an  empty  hut.' 
Mr.  Brandes  declares  that  the  thread-ball,  and  this  scene,  are  out  of 
harmony  with  the  rest  of  Peer's  character,  and  are  consequently  to  be  taken 
as  e.xpressions  of  Ibsen's  own  regret.  It  is  true  that  the  old  Peer  Gynt  could 
not  have  spoken  thus,  but  the  new  soul  growing  within  him  can,  and  does. 
It  has  been  claimed,  too,  that  Peer's  final  salvation  is  too  romantic  an  ending 
to  be  in  accord  with  Ibsen's  usual  teachings.  The  logical  place  for  Peer 
Gynt  seems  to  be  the  casting-ladle,  yet  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  even 
Peer  was  not  saved  until  there  had  come  upon  him  the  realization  of  his 
own  impotence  and  need. 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  GREEN* 

By  Jeannette  Marks 

HERE  in  the  sylvan  ragged  woods  and  fields  is  some  natural 
magic  of  the  wind  and  of  the  world,  some  power  incarnate 
in  sound;  in  the  clapping  of  the  little  leaves  upon  the 
treetop,  the  harsh  noise  of  blown  leaves,  the  broken  song 
of  naked  apple  boughs,  the  little  voice  in  the  valley  and 
the  tiny  piping  over  bare  pastures,  the  windage  of  the 
uplands  with  the  great  rushing  wind  and  the  little  rustling 
wind,  the  big  far-travelling  wind  and  the  distant  battling  wind  with  its 
hollow  sound  of  moving  waters  and  its  speech  of  destiny.  Here,  too,  is 
some  natural  magic  in  this  transformation  from  the  clear  green  of  spring 
to  the  old  gold  of  autumn,  in  those  fields  and  sunny  avenues  and  endless 
alleys  of  marching  apple  trees,  in  this  glade  of  yellow  ferns  and  tall  white 
birches  crowned  with  yellow  autumn  leaves,  and  in  these  maple  trees, 
bare  now,  their  spaces  filled  with  the  grays  and  azures  of  the  varying  skies. 
Even  the  little  stone  that  has  rolled  out  of  its  socket  of  earth  arrests  the  eye 
with  a  sense  of  something  beyond  the  immediate  presence  of  that  which  is 
seen.  An  ethereal  touch  has  come  and  pleasure  no  longer  waits,  as  in 
spring,  on  the  beauty  of  detail:  the  appearance  of  a  starry  flower,  or  some 
faint  change  in  color,  or  the  coming  of  a  new  bird  song.  Flowers  there 
still  are  amidst  the  fluflF  of  blown  thistles  and  purple  asters,  and  in  the 
morning  the  meadow  lark  still  sings  its  song.  But  every  little  incident 
no  longer  binds  the  eyes  by  its  beauty  and  its  youth  to  earth;  here  is  some 
power  invisible,  and  separable  from  our  lives.  The  trees  denuded  of  leaves, 
of  the  exquisite  incident  of  blooming  life,  the  meadows  stripped  of  their 
wavering  linked  grass,  the  fields  razed  of  their  burden  of  grain, —  the 
imagination  becomes  supreme. 

And  when  in  the  blue  mist  of  twilight,  red  apples  gleam,  the  mind 
looks  forward  into  the  'vague  land.'  It  is  as  if  life  had  been  filled  with 
the  loveliness  of  concrete  objects, —  earth  enamelled  with  the  bright  beauty 
of  green  fields  and  blue  skies  and  golden  sun,  and  now,  with  the  light 
glimmering  through  the  trees  on  the  hill-horizon  far  away,  and  the  somber 
arabesque  of  moss  underfoot,  changing  swiftly  to  the  monotones  of  dusk. 
Wide  flumes  of  shadow  reach  up  the  darkening  hills,  little  shadows  lie 
motionless,  the  wind  steps  softly  amongst  the  corn  and  its  sentinel  shadows, 
and  in  the  chill    luster  of  moonshine  stars    hang  on   the  bare   branches. 

•Copyright  by  Jeannette   Marks,    1907. 

.393 


394  THE   PASSING  OF   THE  GREEN 

Life  —  with  the  subduing  of  the  colors  of  autumn,  the  metamorphosis  from 
crimsons  and  glowing  yellows  to  the  little  pale  flames  and  dun  colors  of 
the  wide-spread  meadows  and  woods,  with  the  wind  in  the  corn,  and  the 
shaken  cry  of  the  owl  at  night  —  life  grows  suddenly  tenuous,  suffering 
a  change  into  that  which  abides  elsewhere.  With  the  thought  of  the 
repeated  bloom  and  decay  of  nature,  its  unceasing  revolutions  of  natural 
existence,  the  mind  dwells  more  and  more  on  that  which  is  shaped  in  the 
spirit,  and  clouds  and  seas  and  mountains  disappear,  as  with  Michelangelo, 
in  that  greater  sea  which  is  the  soul  of  man,  boundless  and  dim,  crossed  by 
trade-winds  'from  eternity.'  One  feels  the  vitality  of  nature  apart  from 
its  beauty.  Even  the  very  mist  is  haunted  by  a  shadow  of  that  which  is 
beyond. 

The  mind  broods  on  something  out  of  its  perception,  something  that 
dwells  unseen  in  the  far  sound  of  the  pines,  in  the  wail  of  the  wind,  in  the 
surging  of  branches,  in  the  twitching  of  little  shadows  in  a  twilit  room — 
something  inscrutable  and  yet  mirrored  in  the  settling  dusky  light  and  felt 
in  the  altering  silences.  Beyond  the  eye,  invisible  to  the  eye,  a  procession 
passes,  the  mind  alone  beholding  the  land  of  its  quiet  light,  its  spectral  forms 
of  unknown  hills,  and  the  rush  of  its  eternal  winds.  And  gray  in  the  midst  of 
that  procession  there  is  one  figure,  vast,  pervasive,  followed  by  a  multitude, 
their  thoughts  obedient,  their  hearts  sighing.  And  on  the  path  behind  is  an 
eddy  as  of  whirling  leaves  and  the  sound  of  them  is  like  the  clatter  of  the 
winter  wind.  Here  with  the  force  of  great  moments  when  one  stands  face 
to  face  with  the  inexplicable,  here  is  the  unrelieved  meaning  to  the  end  of 
life.  Sucked  into  that  path  of  the  wind,  swept  toward  those  unknown 
hills  the  spirit  seems  suddenly  captive  and  powerless.  Then  for  the  first 
times  come  that  pitiful  severance  between  our  hearts  and  the  nature  about 
us;  and  we  are  touched  with  home  sickness  ever  after,  knowing  that  the 
beat  of  the  vine  on  the  window  pane  has  been  no  measure  of  a  human  pulse. 
The  division  between  our  being  and  nature's  is  present  with  us;  because 
we  came  we  must  go. 

This  is  a  season  of  great  natural  drama;  now  one  is  aware  of  the  direc- 
tion of  all  the  forces  which  have  been  growing,  the  working  out  of  law. 
But  there  lies  something  in  that  dreamy  haze,  that  pensive  level  light  which 
finds  no  sensuous  expression  —  an  incommunicable  idea,  pellucid,  misty, 
like  little  treetops  caught  for  an  instant  in  crystal  presence  on  a  dusky  hill. 
Even  the  shadows  have  a  kind  of  transparency  pale  and  thin  with  a  spiritual 
effect  of  receding.  And  beyond  the  hills  beneath  the  strips  of  level  green 
sky  is  the  underlight  of  an  unseen  sea.  There,  in  that  somewhat  of  which 
nothing  is  known,  is  one's  certainty  of  hope  —  acknowledged  ignorance 
potent  with  faith. 


A 


THREE    DAYS 

By  Helen  Sharpsteen 
I 

S  lilies  'neath  the  feet  of  May 

Sprang,  marking  where  she  trod, 
So  springs  each  year  a  flower-sweet  day 
Beneath  the  smile  of  God. 

And  it  is  ours  to  bend  each  year 
And  pluck  the  warm  sweet  rose, 

Renewing  memories  fragrant,  dear, 
The  day's  heart  doth  enclose. 


II 

Dear  hands  I  loved  when  long  ago 
You  took  my  heart  and  me, 

Dear  eyes  through  which  alone  I  know 
The  joys  of  things  to  be;  — 

Take  once  again,  in  symbolwise. 
This  day  —  which  doth  renew 

The  fragrance  of  those  memories, — 
All  that  belongs  to  you. 


Ill 

Three  days  that  mark  the  sum  of  life, 

Marking  the  sum  of  love, 
A  trinity  with  meanings  rife 

For  us  to  take  thereof. 

One  day  that  opened  life  with  love. 
One  day  love's  own  caress. 

And  one  the  sum  of  all  to  prove, 
To  crown,  confirm,  and  bless. 

395 


THE    POETRY    OF    ROBERT    LOUIS 

STEVENSON 

By  Alexander  Jessop 

LOOKING  at  the  features  of  Stevenson,  one  is  tempted  to 
exclaim,  in  the  language  of  the  painter  enraptured  before 
the  respondent  model,  'Character,  character,  is  what  he 
has!'  As  it  is  true  of  the  man  himself,  so  may  it  be  said 
of  his  writings,  'Character,  character  is  what  they  have!' 
Plainly,  Stevenson  is  a  writer  with  a  style  —  a  writer  for 
the  sake  of  a  style,  some  have  been  heard  to  expostulate. 
In  truth,  Stevenson  is  a  writer  with  several  styles,  each  one  of  which  is  best 
adapted  to  set  forth  the  message  of  its  own  particular  subject.  Yet,  though 
the  glow  and  glitter  of  language  are  music  to  him,  they  make  but  tunes  after 
all;  still  more  to  him,  one  imagines,  are  the  meanings  that  sing  to  them, 
the  life  he  depicts.  'I  never  cared  a  cent  for  anything  but  art,  and  never 
shall,'  says  Stevenson's  Loudon  Dodd,  in  'The  Wrecker.'  An  impression 
that  one  gets  from  reading  Stevenson  is  that  he  cares  as  much  for  art  and 
as  much  for  life,  each,  as  Loudon  Dodd  cared,  he  says,  for  art  alone.  Stev- 
enson's two  animating  passions  are  youth  and  courage,  if  indeed  they  are 
two,  and  not  rather  (as  Stevenson  makes  us  think)  one  and  indissoluble. '^^^I 
All  Stevenson's  writings  have  certain  characteristics  in  common.  The 
poetrv  of  Stevenson  displays  the  same  animation  of  youth  and  courage, 
the  same  felicity  of  word  and  phrase  that  his  prose  does.  But  it  has  in 
addition  other  qualities  that  his  prose  writings  do  not  share.  Some  of  these 
qualities  are,  doubtless,  those  which  make  the  distinction  between  prose 
and  poetry,  beyond  the  mere  form  of  utterance.  Similarly,  his  poetry  may 
be  said  to  lack  some  of  the  enticing  aspects  of  his  prose  writings.  For 
example,  'The  Vagabond,'  beginning: 

Give  to  me  the  life  I  love, 

Let  the  lave  go  by  me. 
Give  the  jolly  heaven  above 
And  the  byway  nigh  me, 
has  almost  exactly  the  qualities  that  are  to  be  felt  in  his  essays,   Walking 
Tours,'  '.^s  Triplex,'  and  others.     That  poem  might  just  as  well  have  been 
written  in  prose.     Not  that  its  qualities  are  not  excellent,  but  that  they  are 
different  from  those  of  pure  poetrv.     But  the  best  of  Stevenson's  poems 
embody  the  poetry  that  cannot  be  or  cannot  be  so  well  expressed  in  prose. 


ALEXANDER   JESSOP  397 

as  well  as  his  other  qualities;  the  poem,  'The  Unforgotten,'  for  example, 
beginning: 

She  rested  by  the  Broken  Brook, 

She  drank  of  Weary  Well, 
She  moved  beyond  my  lingering  look. 
Ah,  whither  none  can  tell! 
That  poem  has  qualities  that  could  be  expressed  not  only  not  so  well  in 
prose,  but  perhaps  not  at  all.     The  first  stanza  (the  one  quoted),  at  least, 
has  a  lyric  spontaneity  united  with  a  grave  simplicity  that  is  fully  equal 
to  Wordsworth's: 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways. 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise 
And  very  few  to  love. 
One  advantage,  of  course,  that  even  such  a  poem  as  'The  Vagabond'  has 
over  prose  utterance  on  the  same  theme  is,  that  poetry  is  more  quintessential. 
Poetry  is  a  more  concise  vehicle  of  expression  than  prose.     That  is  one 
reason  why  it  is  so  much  easier  to  discern  Stevenson's  particular  char- 
acteristics in  his  poems  than  in  his  other  writings. 

In  common  with  those  of  Wordsworth  and  many  other  writers  many  of 
Stevenson's  poems  are  strongly  impressionistic.  The  tendency  to  impres- 
sionism is  now  increasingly  apparent  both  in  poetry  and  prose;  and,  on 
the  whole,  literature  gains  by  it.  It  is  in  the  direction  of  emancipation  — 
a  protest  against  academicism  and  conventionality.  Conventionality  never 
yet  did  anything  for  literature,  and  never  will.  On  the  other  hand,  it  may 
be  said  that  impressionism,  if  too  freely  followed,  is  itself  in  danger  of 
becoming  a  convention.  But  it  is  most  effective  when  applied  sparingly, 
as  in  this  poem  by  Stevenson  which  bears  no  title: 
Bright  is  the  ring  of  words 

When  the  right  man  rings  them, 
Fair  the  fall  of  songs 

When  the  singer  sings  them. 
Still  they  are  caroled  and  said  — 

On  wings  they  are  carried  — 
After  the  singer  is  dead 
And  the  maker  buried. 

Low  as  the  singer  lies 

In  the  field  of  heather, 
Songs  of  his  fashion  l)ring 

The  swains  together. 


398       THE   POETRY  OF    ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON 

And  when  the  west  is  red 
With  the  sunset  emhers, 
The  lover  hngers  and  sings 
And  the  maid  remembers. 
The  first  two  lines  of  the  second  stanza  are,  to  nn'  thinking,  the  most  efFective 
ones  in  that  poem,  and  all  the  more  so  from  their  position  among  lines  not 
so  strongly  stamped  with  the  impressionistic  hall-mark.     Through  every 
true  lover  of  poetrv,  reading  that  poem  for  the  first  time,  a  wave  of  compre- 
hension and  emotion  surely  passes  as  he  comes  to  those  lines.     The  effect 
and  purpose  of  such  impressionism  is,  of  course,  to  make  one  feel  what  is 
described  or  hinted  at.     Thus  it  may  be  seen  that  it  is  bound  up  with  the 
very  essence  of  utter  poetry,  which  does  not  appeal  primarily  to  the  intellect 
(as  academic  traditions  would  have  us  think)  but  to  something  more  subtle  — 
the  emotions  of  the  heart  and  of  the  soul.     The  reason  why  this  impression- 
istic writing,  especially  in  poetry,  is  most  effective  when  sparingly  applied 
doubtless  is  because,  giving  as  it  does  of  the  very  essence  of  poetry,  the 
note  cannot  be  sustained  for  any  length  of  time,  even  by  the  greatest  poetic 
geniuses.     Sometimes  it  is  so  sustained,  and  then  a  perfect  poem  is  the  result. 
But  most  poems  have  to  depend  for  their  effect  on  a  charm  that  is  to  be  felt 
as  the  total  result,  rather  than  as  sustained  at  every  point. 

Various  academic  writers  have,  at  intervals  during  several  thousand 
years,  endeavored  to  formulate  definitions  and  theories  of  what  constitutes 
poetn'.  These  specifications  have  been  very  useful,  no  doubt:  but  without 
a  doubt,  too,  they  have  been  felt  as  a  fetter  to  originality  rather  than  as  an 
aid  and  inspiration.  It  is  just  what  has  been  written  outside  of  such  rules, 
without  precedent,  that  has  proved  of  greatest  value  in  poetry.  Yet  differ- 
ence is  not  always  excellence;  even  originality  may  be  trivial  or  grotesque. 
The  difference,  in  order  to  be  worth  while,  must  be  excellent  difference. 
When  a  high  degree  of  both  difference  and  excellence  is  to  be  found  in 
the  same  piece  of  writing  we  may  be  sure  that  something  has  been  written 
that  mankind  will  not  willingly  forget  or  value  slightly. 

Stevenson's  poetry  is  excellent,  and  it  is  largely  different  from  the  poetry 
of  any  other  poet.  Like  all  good  poetry,  it  has  something  in  common  with 
the  work  of  other  poets,  great  or  fine  —  it  contains  the  universal  prime 
essence.  But  Stevenson's  point  of  view  is  highly  original.  That  it  is  which 
constitutes  his  claim  to  remembrance  in  this  highest  department  of  literary 
art.  All  single  definitions  must  partly  fail  when  the  attempt  is  made  to 
foist  one  of  them  upon  so  wide  and  intangible  a  thing  as  poetry.  Yet,  if 
I  were  to  give  a  definition  of  poetry's  quintessence  in  a  single  sentence, 
from  a  single  point  of  view,  I  should  say,  'The  spirit  of  poetry  is  loneliness, 


ALEXANDER  JESSOP  399 

a  world-aloofness.'  In  the  midst  of  commonness  we  feel  the  uncommon  — 
the  stars  are  above  the  plain,  and  in  the  midst  of  sordidness  we  feel  the  ideal 
beckoning  on.  The  purpose  of  poetry,  then,  is  to  represent  the  ideal  as  it 
is  to  be  found  in  the  ordinary  —  that  is,  in  life.  If  we  consider  the  highest 
flights  of  poetry  in  this  age,  or  in  any  age,  we  will  find  that  they  all  more  or 
less  uphold  that  definition.  Other  definitions,  too,  might  be  truthfully 
applied;  but,  as  I  have  already  tried  to  indicate  impHcitly,  suggestiveness 
is  the  finest  quality  not  only  of  poetry  but  of  prose  definitions  about  it. 

For  melody,  for  successful  impressionism,  for  utter  pathos,  Stevenson's 
'Wandering  WiUie'  is  unsurpassed,  not  only  among  his  own  poems  but  in 
all  poetry: 

Home  no  more  home  to  me,  whither  must  I  wander  ? 

Hunger  my  driver,  I  go  where  I  must. 
Cold  blows  the  winter  wind  over  hill  and  heather; 

Thick  drives  the  rain,  and  my  roof  is  in  dust. 
Loved  of  wise  men  was  the  shade  of  my  roof-tree. 

The  true  word  of  welcome  was  spoken  in  the  door  — 
Dear  days  of  old,  with  the  faces  in  the  firelight, 
Kind  folks  of  old,  you  come  again  no  more. 

Home  was  home,  then,  my  dear,  full  of  kindly  faces, 

Home  was  home,  then,  my  dear,  happy  for  the  child. 
Fire  and  the  window  bright  glittered  on  the  moorland;  ' 

Song,  tuneful  song,  built  a  palace  in  the  wild. 
Now,  when  day  dawns  on  the  brow  of  the  moorland. 

Lone  stands  the  house,  and  the  chimney-stone  is  cold. 
Lone  let  it  stand,  now  the  friends  are  all  departed, 

The  kind  hearts,  the  true  hearts,  that  loved  the  place  of  old. 

Spring  shall  come,  come  again,  calling  up  the  moor-fowl, 

Spring  shall  bring  the  sun  and  rain,  bring  the  bees  and  flowers; 
Red  shall  the  heather  bloom  over  hill  and  valley. 

Soft  flow  the  stream  through  the  even-flowing  hours; 
Fair  the  day  shine  as  it  shown  on  my  childhood  — 

Fair  shine  the  day  on  the  house  with  open  door; 
Birds  come  and  cry  there  and  twitter  in  the  chimney  — 

But  1  go  forever  and  come  again  no  more. 

1  do  nor  iiK-an  the  \Norcl  'pathos'  in  its  original  Greek  sense,  of  course,  but 
in  its  modern  Knglish  application.     Does  tliis  poem  somewhat  pale  beside 


400      THE   POEXm'   OF   ROBERT  LOUIS   STEVENSON 

such  supreme  achievements  treating  of  a  similar  subject  as  Tennyson's 
'A  Farewell,'  'In  the  Vallev  of  Cauteretz,'  'Break,  Break,  Break,'  'Tears, 
Idle  Tears,'  etc.  ?  1  he  difference  between  those  poems  and  Stevenson's 
is  a  difference  in  kitiJ  rather  than  in  quality.  The  greatest  poetry  appeals 
to  the  universal  soul  of  man;  somewhat  below  these  highest  peaks  of  song 
comes  that  poetr>-  that  appeals  primarily  to  the  heart;  the  lower  heights 
are  occupied  by  the  dreary  academicism  whose  appeal  is  mostly  to  the 
intellect.  What  might  be  very  effective  in  prose  may  be  wholly  out  of  place 
as  poetr\-. 

The  truth  may  as  well  be  confessed.  Wonderfully  impressionistic  as 
is  Stevenson's  poetr}'  at  its  best,  its  appeal  is  rather  to  the  emotions  of  the 
heart  than  of  the  soul.  His  poetry,  even  at  its  best,  is  somewhat  lacking 
in  austerit)'.  This  quality  at  times  comes  perilously  near  to  academicism 
and  pretentiousness.  But,  at  its  truest  and  best,  it  is  of  the  essence  of  the 
greatest  song.  Stevenson,  to  be  sure,  writes  a  good  deal  about  austerity. 
But  that  does  not  make  his  art  austere.  But  what  the  poems  of  Stevenson 
lack  in  austerity  they  make  up  in  their  warmth  of  human  appeal;  they  are 
the  intimate  poetry  of  personal  relations.  That  is  what  constitutes  their 
uniqueness. 

If  'Wandering  Willie'  has  a  rival  among  Stevenson's  poems,  it  is  the 
one  entitled  'In  Memoriam.     F.  A.  S.': 

Yet,  oh,  stricken  heart,  remember,  oh,  remember. 
How  of  human  days  he  lived  the  better  part. 

April  came  to  bloom  and  never  dim  December 
Breathed  its  killing  chills  upon  the  head  or  heart. 

Doomed  to  know  not  Winter,  only  Spring,  a  being 
Trod  the  flowery  April  blithely  for  a  while. 

Took  his  fill  of  music,  joy  of  thought  and  seeing, 

Came  and  stayed  and  went,  nor  ever  ceased  to  smile. 

Came  and  stayed  and  w^ent,  and  now  when  all  is  finished, 

You  alone  have  crossed  the  melancholy  stream, 
Yours  the  pang,  but  his  —  oh,  his  the  undiminished, 

Undecaying  gladness,  undeparted  dream. 
All  that  life  contains  of  torture,  toil,  and  treason, 

Shame,  dishonor,  death,  to  him  were  but  a  name. 
Here,  a  boy,  he  dw-elt  through  all  the  singing  season 

And  ere  the  day  of  sorrow  departed  as  he  came. 

I  have  not  attempted  to  speak  of  'A  Child's  Garden  of  Verses.'  The 
best  of  their  kind,  those  'poems'  are  not  to  be  judged  as  poetry  proper  so 


SARA  TEASDALE 


401 


much  as  delightful  reminiscences  of  childhood,  which  happen  to  be  written 
in  verse.  The  remarks  in  the  present  essay  do  not,  therefore,  apply  to  them. 
Stevenson's  poetry  is  not  very  reminiscent  of  the  work  of  other  poets. 
But  It  is  reminiscent  of  all  the  more  tender  and  animated  aspects  of  life  — 
the  intimate,  vital  emotions  of  the  heart.  And,  as  its  best,  the  charm  and 
pathos  of  it  are  irresistible.  As  long  as  idealism  and  romance  are  unfailing 
in  their  appeal  it  will  not,  it  cannot,  be  forgotten. 


W 


SILENCE 

By  Sara  Teasdale 
To  Eleonora  Duse 


E  are  anhungered  after  solitude, 

Deep  stillness  pure  of  any  speech  or  sound, 
Soft  quiet  hovering  over  pools  profound; 
The  silences  that  on  the  desert  brood; 
Above  the  windless  hush  of  empty  seas, 
The  broad  unfurhng  banners  of  the  dawn; 

A  faery  forest  where  there  sleeps  a  Faun; 

Our  souls  are  fain  of  sohtudes  like  these. 

O  woman  who  divined  our  weariness. 

And  set  the  crown  of  silence  on  your  art, 

From  what  undreamed  of  depths  within  your  heart 

Have  you  sent  forth  the  hush  that  makes  us  free 

To  hear  an  instant,  high  above  earth's  stress, 

The  silent  music  of  infinity  .? 


HYMN  TO  THE  WINGED  NIKE 

Bv  Florence  Kiper 
I 


A 


N   earth-bound  priestess,  hampered  and  secure, 
I  scarcely  dare  approach  thee,  sovereign  form, 
I  scarcely  dare  essay  the  rapturous  joy 
Of  movement  and  of  fire  that  is  thy  heart, 

Yet  know 
There  burns  in  me  the  glow, 
The  restless  glow  that  feedeth  thy  desire,-- 
Pulsating,  winged  heart  of  joy  and  fire. 

I  too  aspire 
As  thou,  O  goddess;  I  too  feel  the  urge 
Of  passions  and  of  utterances  high 
That  break  through  to  the  Infinite  and  cry 
Against  the  clouds  their  pulsing  movements  vast, 
My  soul  has  wings  like  thine. 
And  those  full  limbs  that  flaunt 
The  fluttering  drapery 
And  that  deep  bosom  free 

Are  mine,  are  mine! 

II 

What  quickeneth  the  urge 

Within  thee  ?  —  dost  thou  feel  the  sweep  and  surge 

Of  the  vast  flowing  of  illimitable  life, 

Life  beyond  life,  and  striving  beyond  strife  ? 

Ah,  from  what  amplitude  of  powers  emerge 

That  stern  and  glorious  strength  that  thrills  through  thee, 

Thou  vivid,  burning  song  of  victory! 

Large  freedom's  high  imagination  thou. 

Sweeping  the  cleaved  air  with  haughty  stroke. 

As  if  thy  great  life  broke 

Free  from  our  prisoning  cells   that  bruise  and   bow. 

The  poet  thou, — 
The  poet's  soul  all  vivid  things  above, — 

4.02 


FLORENCE  KIPER  4^3 

More  vivid  and  more  vital  in  its  love 
Than  love  of  woman  who  has  waked  to  love. 
Triumph  of  burning  justice  and  its  might! 
Triumph  of  soul  and  its  august  decrees: 

Triumph  of  right! 
Ah,  what  vast  things  to  be  are  in  thy  sight! 

Ill 

Art  thou  indeed  the  Godhead,  molded  strong 
In  the  calm  marble  which  must  needs  be  white 
Because  it  focuses  all  shades  of  light 
The  crimson  passion  and  the  yearning  hue 

Of  the  pale  spiritual  blue! 

Dost  all  to  thee  belong  ?  — 
Emotion  and  emotion,  strong  or  weak  ?  — 

All  powers  and  shades  of  song  ? 

Ah,  could'st  thou  speak: 
Speak  to  me,  bend  above  me,  touch  my  lips, 
Anoint  me  with  thy  presence,  consecrate 

My  soul  unto  thy  state. 
And  I  shall  burst  into  such  power  of  words 
As  men  have  waited  for  with  eager  hearts 
Since  last  the  gods  walked  big  among  us. 

It  may  not  be! 
I  may  not  see  thee  naked-free  and  pure, — 
An  earth-bound  priestess,  hampered  and  secure. 

'Tis  but  for  me  to  see 
The  splendor  keen  that  darts 
From  out  thy  garment  folds; 
Some  touch  upon  my  hand  I  know,  same  far 

Faint  rustle  of  thy  gown, 

And  yet  my  quick  heart  holds 
Its  yearning,  aching,  passionate  dream  of  thee. 


RECENT   WORKS    BY  GERMAN 
WRITERS 

By  Amelia  von  Ende 

N^  EW  works  by  authors  who  have  long  passed  the  zenith  of 
their  powers  make  one  reahze  the  rapid  pace  at  which  we 
are  moving  along  in  the  procession.  It  seems  but  yester- 
day that  students  of  German  were  ravished  by  the  poetic 
sentiment  and  verbal  beauty  of 'Die  braune  Erika.'  Yet 
what  a  distance  Wilhelm  Jensen  has  covered  since  the 
publication  of  that  exquisite  little  story,  and  from  what 
a  distance  the  readers  look  back  to  him,  who  was  then  thirty-one,  now  that 
he  has  reached  his  threescore  and  ten  and  has  one  hundred  and  fifty  volumes 
to  his  credit.  It  must  be  admitted,  also,  that  although  the  radiance  of  his 
name  may  at  intervals  have  been  totally  eclipsed  by  the  newer  and  noisier 
fame  of  novices,  the  sound  of  it  still  falls  upon  the  ear  with  something  of 
a  tender  caress,  for  it  recalls  visions  of  beauty  which  at  that  time  only  his 
pen  was  able  to  evoke.  Jensen  visualized  upon  the  printed  page  atmosphere, 
color,  lights  and  shadows,  as  the  painter  does  on  canvas.  He  introduced 
in  fiction  the  element  of  nature  study  and  limned  with  genial  realism  the 
scientist  type,  which  had  previously  been  the  butt  of  satire.  The  formid- 
able quantity  of  his  works  is  hardly  more  bewildering  than  the  versatility  of 
his  mind.  The  poet's  temperament,  the  painter's  vision,  the  philosopher's 
perspective,  the  scholar's  knowledge,  the  earthborn's  experience  —  all 
these  enter  into  his  work,  which  with  crystalline  transparency  reflects  his 
serious  reading  of  life. 

The  dominant  quality  of  his  verse,  collected  some  time  ago  under 
the  title  '  Vom  M  or  gen  zum  Abend'  and  recently  re-issued  in  a  new  edition 
(B.  Flischer,  Leipzig)  is  sincerity.  With  remarkable  fearlessness  he  gives 
utterance  to  religious  heresies,  but  even  in  his  combative  mood  there  is 
never  a  touch  of  indelicacy.  One  of  the  most  interesting  poems  in  the 
book  is  'Lilith.'  In  her,  the  prototype  of  woman,  the  mother  of  life,  the 
poet  sees  the  supreme  spiritual  power  of  mankind.  But  Adam  could  not 
grasp  her  greatness;  he  begged  the  Creator  to  give  him  only  a  woman,  not 
a  goddess,  one  w^ho  would  willingly  receive,  not  imperiously  demand. 
So  Lilith  was  left  alone  with  her  great  longing  to  love  and  to  render  happy 
the  man  whose  companionship  she  was  to  share.  In  her  despair  she  tore 
out  of  her  heart  this  longing  and  implanted  it  in  the  hearts  of  the  human 

404 


AMELIA  VON   ENDE  405 

race  that  was  to  be.  In  time  this  heirloom  of  Lilith  became  the  great 
dynamic  force  which  spurs  man  forever  to  seek  some  far-off  goal,  and  the 
source  of  the  greatest  sorrows  and  the  greatest  joys  of  life.  For  originality 
of  conception  and  dignity  of  expression  this  poem  is  a  rare  achievement. 
There  are  other  poems  in  the  volume  full  of  the  mature  wisdom  of  noble 
manhood.  Many  readers  familiar  with  the  'Lieder  aus  Frankreich-von 
einem  deutschen  Soldaten,'  which  were  considered  the  best  poetical  monu- 
ment of  the  war  of  1870,  will  be  surprised  to  learn  that  these  peoms  are  not 
included  in  the  book.  Jensen  is  one  of  the  few  German  writers  of  the  older 
generation  whom  the  material  prosperity  of  the  country  has  not  made 
insensible  to  its  spiritual  poverty.  The  new  empire  not  having  fulfilled 
its  ideal  promises,  his  patriotism  would  not  allow  those  songs  to  be  re- 
published. 

While  the  appearance  of  Jensen's  poems  must  be  welcomed  both  as 
a  human  document  and  an  artistic  achievement,  one  can  but  regret  the 
publication  of  the  poems  of  two  other  seniors  among  the  German  writers. 
Surely  an  author  of  such  high  standing  as  novelist  and  dramatist,  as  Adolf 
Wilbrandt,  should  hesitate  to  give  to  the  public  a  volume  of  verse  so  little 
calculated  to  enhance  his  reputation,  as  ' Lieder  und  Bilder'  (Cotta,  Sutt- 
gart).  The  book  is  mainly  composed  of  occasional  poems  of  which  Ger- 
many has  already  more  than  all  the  other  countries  combined.  Birthday 
greetings,  even  if  they  are  addressed  to  Bismarck,  lines  sent  with  a  bouquet 
to  be  worn  at  a  ball,  verses  written  for  festival  monographs  or  special  editions 
of  magazines,  or  for  recitation  at  some  solemn  celebration,  are  not  likely 
to  be  inspired  bv  a  spark  of  true  fire.  There  is  much  of  this  inartistic 
timeliness  in  the  book  of  Rudolf  von  Gottschall:  Spaete  Lieder'  (Gebr. 
Paetel,  Berlin).  These  prologues  for  Schiller  days,  for  a  navy  festival, 
for  various  occasions  lend  themselves  to  a  display  of  resonant  phrases  which 
may  strike  a  responsive  chord  in  masses  keyed  up  to  the  mood  of  the  occa- 
sion, but  when  the  spell  of  the  moment  is  past,  the  hoUowness  of  their  ring 
becomes  almost  painful.  Genial  spirit  and  fluent  form  do  not  save  either 
of  these  books  from  bearing  the  stamp  of  mediocrity. 

Of  quite  another  character  is  the  book  of  verse  by  Georg  von  Oertzen. 
His  'Memorten  des  Zuf nils'  (F.  Bielefeld,  Freiburg  i.  B.)  reflect  a  somewhat 
robust,  but  lovable  personality.  The  poet  is  an  octogenarian,  but  he  has  not 
lost  the  sense  of  values.  He  offers  impressions  and  confessions  full  of  sane 
acceptance  of  reality,  a  virile  joy  of  life.  A  sage  who  sees  the  meaning  of 
the  passing  show,  who  bravely  lashes  the  follies  and  sympathetically  pictures 
the  sufl^erings  of  his  fellow-beings,  there  is  a  strength  and  a  spontaneity  in 
his  book,  which  sharply  contrasts  with  the  weary  senility  of  some  of  the 


4o6  RECENT  WORKS    BY  GERMAN  WRITERS 

junior  poets  of  his  country.  Prince  Scheonaich-Carolath,  too,  shows  no 
signs  ot  age  in  his  'Gedichte"  (Goeschen,  Leipzig).  In  his  early  formative 
period  he  drank  deep  of  the  fountain  of  folk-song  and  has  derived  from  that 
source  an  admirable  simplicity.  His  is  a  religious  nature;  there  are 
moments  when  he  speaks  like  one  inspired  with  a  mission  to  raise  mankind 
to  a  higher  spiritual  level.  In  his  purely  personal  moods  he  often  strikes 
lyric  notes  of  rare  charm.  Maurice  Reinhold  von  Stern's  new  volume 
* Donner  iind  Lerche'  (Literarische  Bulletin,  Leipzig)  proves  him  to  be 
a  nature  poet  of  distinction,  whose  spiritual  searchings  into  the  mysteries  of 
being  have  revealed  to  him  the  secret  bonds  between  the  universe  and  the 
individual  soul.  He  gives  plastic  utterance  to  his  abstract  imaginings,  yet 
always  preserves  a  rare  delicacy  of  outline  and  intimacy  of  feeling. 

Ernst  von  Wolzogen  has  been  so  identified  with  the  spirit  of  modern 
Germany,  even  in  its  most  absurd  manifestation,  the  ill-starred  Ueberbrettl, 
that  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  him  to  have  reached  the  age,  when  the  human 
mind  is  inclined  to  ramble  over  the  road  of  the  yesterdays.  His  new  book, 
^  Ferse  zu  meinem  Leben'  (Fontane,  BerUn)  maintains  his  reputation  for 
originality.  It  is  a  sort  of  diary  with  poetical  annotations.  Were  it  not 
for  the  biographical  material  they  contain,  some  of  the  verses  might  as  well 
have  remained  unwritten;  but  the  preface  of  the  author  justifies  their 
publication.  The  portrait  of  the  author,  whose  hearty  humor  and  refreshing 
Bohemianism  have  made  him  a  favorite  figure  among  contemporary 
writers,  smiles  at  one  through  the  pages  of  his  curious  book.  Otto  Erich 
Hartleben,  too,  was  an  amiable  Bohemian,  but  his  posthumous  volume 
' Meine  Verse'  (S.  Fischer,  Berlin)  reflects  his  Dionysian  joy  of  living  with 
the  measured  cadence  and  the  tempered  tone  of  classical  tradition.  Unlike 
his  stories  and  his  plays,  which  tackle  social  problems  with  sparkling  humor 
or  with  mordant  satire,  his  verse  expresses  his  reading  of  life  but  indirectly. 
It  is  a  book  which  deserves  to  be  taken  more  seriously  than  that  of  the 
confrere  who  survives  him,  but  it  lacks  the  intimate  personal  charm  of  the 
other. 

As  a  self-made  artist  Christian  Wagner  once  bid  fair  to  be  ranked  with 
Conrad  Deubler,  the  Austrian  poet-philosopher,  whose  prose  was  read  and 
whose  presence  was  sought  by  men  of  distinction  in  many  walks  of  life. 
But  his  poetic  fund  soon  gave  out  and  spoiled  by  his  critics  he  became 
artificial.  Now  he  has  made  a  selection  from  his  poems  under  the  title 
' Ein  Blumenstrauss'  (Germann's  Verlag,  Schwaebisch-Hall),  which , is 
remarkable  both  for  philosophical  content  and  poetic  form.  There  are  few 
German  writers  today  who  have  caught  the  undertones  in  the  harmony  of 
nature  with  such  a  sympathetic  ear.  The  book  is  radiant  with  a  serene 
acceptance  of  fate  and  a  solemn  faith  in  eternity. 


AMELIA  VON  ENDE  407 

Among  the  newcomers  are  two  poets  of  an  originality  as  distmct  as  it 
is  divergent:  Ernst  Lissauer  and  Alfons  Paquet.  Lissauer  takes  up  in 
his  book,  Der  Acker'  (Hugo  Heller,  Vienna),  one  segment  of  life  and  makes 
it  the  pivotal  point  for  a  panorama  of  symbols,  clear,  strong,  vital  and 
tangible,  moving  with  admirable  consistency  in  the  narrow  compass  of  his 
vision,  yet  opening  vistas  into  the  larger  world.  Paquet,  whose  book  bears 
a  no  less  significant  title,  'AufErden'  (published  by  subscription  and  already 
out  of  print),  roves  and  loafs  over  the  earth  with  the  Wanderlust  of  a  true 
worldling,  embracing,  owning,  sensing  all  and  seeking  its  meaning.  Lissauer 
limits  himself  to  the  traditional  meter  and  form;  his  lines  and  his  stanzas 
are  short,  his  style  is  terse,  and  in  some  instances  he  arrives  at  that  finality 
of  expression  which  is  the  artist's  ultimate  aim.  Paquet  listens  with  ear 
intent  to  the  song  of  life,  as  his  wheel  whirrs  at  midnight  through  the  valleys 
of  his  native  land,  as  he  stands  on  the  railroad  bridge,  or  gazes  into  the  glare 
of  a  foundry,  or  peers  into  the  infinitude  of  the  steppe,  or  hails  the  bewil- 
dering vastness  and  activity  of  the  new  world.  And  as  he  listens,  the  lines 
he  speaks  echo  it  all,  and  the  plaint  of  toil,  the  clarion  of  strife,  the  chant 
of  faith,  the  cancan  of  pleasure  and  the  monody  of  death  become  a  many- 
voiced,  endless  canon,  sung  over  an  organ-point  of  multifarious  rnachinery, 
beating  the  time  and  holding  the  key  in  an  awesome,  mysterious  hum. 
Paquet  recalls  Whitman;  his  horizon  is  as  large,  his  conception  as  demo- 
cratic; the  rhythm  of  the  'Leaves  of  Grass'  vibrates  in  his  lines  and  his  style 
often  becomes  diflFuse.  Both  Lissauer  and  Paquet  have  been  the  first  in 
some  years  to  strike  a  new  note  in  the  poetry  of  Germany;  they  are  both 
unusually  virile  individualities.  Men  who  have  encompassed  experience, 
they  sing  of  vital  things  and  their  songs  ring  convincingly  true. 

The  dramatic  production  of  the  past  months  has  not  been  great,  but 
it  has  brought  at  least  one  surprise.  When  a  writer  belonging  to  an  older 
generation  achieves  a  genuine  dramatic  success  by  means  as  old  as  they 
are  naive,  before  an  audience  as  sophisticated  as  that  of  the  Schauspielhaus 
of  Berlin,  the  world  has  cause  to  wonder.  Ernst  von  Wildenbruch  has  long 
stood  for  an  interpreter  of  truths  through  the  medium  of  historical  images. 
A  certain  fraction  of  German  theatergoers  never  fails  to  respond  to  the 
patriotic  appeal  which  his  works  convey,  be  it  ever  so  indirectly,  ^m'  Die 
Rabenstemcrin,"  which  was  given  shortly  before  the  close  of  the  season,  is 
not  a  historical  but  a  romantic  drama,  the  plot  whereof  is  childishly  simple 
and  the  treatment  almost  trite.  Yet  the  secret  of  his  success  is  not  far  to 
seek.  Wildenbruch  is  the  last  heir  of  the  Schiller  tradition;  with  him  it 
may  die,  unless  a  revival  is  close  at  hand.  He  is  a  poet  who  has  remained 
young  at  heart  in  the  very  hotbed  of  premature  senility.      He  has  kept  the 


4o8  RECENT  WORKS    RV  GERMAN  WRITERS 

hoK  lamp  ever  burning  before  tbe  ideals  of  bis  younger  days.  In  his 
flamboyant  enthusiasm  there  is  no  false  note;  he  is  thoroughly  in  earnest 
and  he  is  always  sincere.  The  ring  of  this  sincerity  finds  response  in  the 
hearts  of  the  people  and  wins  the  favor  of  his  audiences.  There  is  no  other 
man  today  who  could  risk  the  experiment  of  presenting  in  the  Schauspielhaus 
a  play  on  the  same  lines;  for  no  other  man  would  be  credited  with  having 
a  spark  of  the  spirit,  of  which  Schiller  is  the  embodiment. 

Nor  is  his  success  entirely  due  to  this  element  in  his  work.  Wildenbruch 
is  an  admirable  technician;  he  has  an  architect's  eye  for  construction,  an 
almost  infallible  instinct  for  building  up  situations  with  a  logical  assurance 
that  makes  them  appear  natural  and  even  necessary,  and  for  reaching 
a  final  dramatic  climax.  His  treatment  of  the  masses  is  theatrical,  but  it  is 
effective,  and  under  the  spell  of  the  dramatic  moment  the  audience  asks  not 
for  psychology.  One  motive  enters  into  the  plot  of  'Die  Rabensteinerin' 
which  claims  the  attention  of  American  readers.  When  the  scion  of  the  old 
patrician  Welser  family  has  succeeded  in  winning  for  his  bride  the  daughter 
of  the  robber-barons,  the  father,  hurt  in  his  Welser  pride,  but  impressed 
by  the  racial  traits  of  the  young  woman,  decides  that  they  should  work  out 
their  salvation  in  the  new  world.  This  final  chord  is  a  fine  psychological 
touch,  emphasizing  at  once  the  gulf  between  two  generations  and  pointing 
the  way  out  of  the  inevitable  conflict.  The  play  is  published  by  Grote, 
Berlin. 

Eberhard  Koenig's  'Stein'  (Egon  Fleischel  &  Co.,  Berlin)  was  written 
for  the  Lutherfestspiel  verein  and  perhaps  not  intended  for  anything  but 
a  festival  play.  But  the  work  deserves  notice,  not  only  for  its  good  work- 
manship but  for  its  national  meaning.  The  central  figure  is  Stein,  the 
Prussian  diplomat  and  patriot,  so  prominent  during  the  momentous  period 
of  1806  13.  Although  the  poet  has  by  no  means  exhausted  the  dramatic 
possibilities  of  the  life  of  Stein,  he  has  conveyed  the  idea  of  a  nation's 
regeneration  through  the  ideals  of  a  hero  convincingly  and  effectively. 
His  language  is  dignified  and  powerful.  The  success  at  the  initial  per- 
formance in  Jena  was  due  more  to  the  poet  who  has  profoundly  touched 
by  his  stirring  scenes  and  gripping  words  the  patriotic  chord,  than  to  the 
dramatist  who  had  previously  proved,  that  he  is  able  to  do  better  work. 

Thomas  Mann's  '  Fiorenza'  has  at  last  been  performed  in  Frankfurt 
and  has  proved  not  only  a  poetic  drama  of  power,  but  a  thoroughly  playable 
play.  Eduard  Stucken's  'Gawan'  is  another  proof  that  even  in  Germany 
the  poetic  drama  often  has  to  go  begging  before  it  finds  a  stage  to  undertake 
its  performance.  'Gawan'  (S.  Fischer,  Berlin)  has  been  performed  in 
Munich.     The  play  is  based  upon  the  English  poem  of  Sir  Gawain,  the 


AMELIA  VON   ENDE 


409 


main  outline  of  which  has  been  faithfully  adhered  to  until  the  end,  when 
the  'green  knight'  becomes  death.  Obeying  an  order  from  the  Lord  and 
assisted  by  the  Virgin  Mary,  who  lends  her  shape  to  the  seductive  chatelaine 
of  the  poem,  the  hero  is  tempted.  He  promptly  repents  of  his  failure  and 
lays  down  the  magic  girdle  before  the  statue;  this  rapidly  changes  into 
the  living  Virgin,  who  wards  off  death  from  the  penitent,  unveils  the  Grail 
and  offers  him  the  sacred  draught.  By  this  conclusion  the  sub-title  of  the 
play  —  a  mystery  —  is  justified.  The  play  could  not  fail  to  find  favor 
with  various  portions  of  the  audience  by  its  appeal  to  the  taste  for  gruesome 
decapitations,  which  have  recently  proved  so  effective,  by  its  introduction 
of  Parsifal  motives  and  by  the  exquisite  stage  management. 

Franz  Duelberg  is  a  writer  on  art  belonging  to  the  younger  Munich 
school,  whose  dramatic  attempts  always  excite  some  controversy.  His 
imagination  is  exotic,  his  language  affected  and  his  composition  lacks  the 
simple  lines  of  a  great  work  of  art.  But  he  has  an  abundance  of  ideas  and 
he  expresses  them  in  myriads  of  images,  and  although  it  is  difficult  to  find 
one's  way  through  the  maze,  he  succeeds  to  impress  with  a  semblance  of 
power.  His  ' Korallenkettlin'  (Egon  Fleischel  &  Co.,  Berlin)  has  a  mediae- 
val plot  of  great  strength,  the  theatrical  resources  of  which  have  been 
thoroughly  exploited  and  even  exaggerated  by  the  author.  Yet  the  play 
tends  to  confirm  the  hope  that  Duelberg  will  some  time  learn  to  discipline 
his  gifts  and  use  them  to  better  results  than  at  the  present  time. 

Whether  he  writes  lyric  verse  or  little  stories,  like  the  exquisite  'Ge- 
schichten  vom  lieben  Gott,'  Rainer  Maria  Rilke  is  always  a  poet  of  noble  dis- 
tinction. But  his  first  dramatic  attempt  has  hardly  conveyed  the  impression 
that  he  is  also  a  dramatist  of  power.  He  has  written  a  series  of  well- 
constructed,  but  detached  scenes,  in  which  the  dialogue  takes  the  place  of 
action.  Although  the  psychology  was  convincing  enough  and  the  suggestion 
of  undercurrents  of  thought  and  feeling  admirable,  these  dynamics  of  the 
' drame  intime'  did  not  save  the  play  from  failure  through  the  lack  of  a  firm 
groundwork. 

In  the  fiction  recently  published  there  is  one  volume  by  Rudolf  von 
Gottschall  which  ranks  high  above  the  poems  of  the  monogenarian  author. 
Yet  it  does  give  one  a  peculiar  feeling  to  see  the  vast  difference  in  manner 
more  than  matter,  which  separates  him,  who  was  once  the  champion  of 
a  young  Germany  against  the  conventionalities  of  an  older  generation, 
from  the  young  writers  of  the  day.  In  ' Neue  Erzachlungrn'  (Gebr.  Paetel, 
Berlin),  he  has  retained  much  of  the  ardor  and  of  the  combativeness  of  his 
younger  days;  but  even  in  these  stories  he  cannot  ignore  an  opportunity 
to  vent  his  wrath  upon  the  mutual  bof)ming  society  which  the  young  gener- 


410  RECENT  WORKS   BY  GERMAN  WRITERS 

ation  ot  German  literati  seems  to  have  organized.  He  calls  them  a  race  of 
'blast'  megalomaniacs,  fed  on  false  philosophisms  and  suffering  from 
congested  mysticism.'  1  hough  there  is  some  truth  in  his  remarks,  they 
mar  the  tenor  of  stories  otherwise  harmless.  Still  he  cannot  be  denied 
a  mastery  of  narrative  style,  a  language  full  of  color  and  mobility  and  great 
constructive  power.  He  was  always  a  landscapist  of  no  mean  order,  and 
the  setting  of  the  stories  lends  itself  to  charming  descriptions.  The  time 
of  the  first  two  stories  is  the  present,  the  scene  of  the  last  is  Silesia  shortly 
before  the  peace  of  Tilsit. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  trace  the  connection  between  the  new  chapter 
of  psychology,  which  is  called  child-study,  and  the  new  chapter  of  literature 
which  has  given  us  the  child  in  drama  and  fiction.  Among  the  writers  who 
have  treated  the  child  types  in  their  works  from  the  standpoint  of  superior 
psychological  knowledge,  Franziska  Mann  is  likely  to  be  ranked  first.  Her 
insight  into  the  growth  and  the  workings  of  a  child  soul  is  admirable;  she 
watches  over  her  little  men  and  women  as  a  mother  over  her  brood,  as 
a  sculptor  over  his  shapes  of  clay.  There  is  a  tender  solicitude  in  the  way 
she  reveals  to  her  readers  some  rare  individuality,  still  in  the  making,  but 
already  endowed  with  all  the  instincts  and  impulses  of  the  adult  human 
being.  The  stories  in  her  latest  book,  'Kinder'  (Axel  Juncker,  Berlin)  are 
sketchy,  her  portraits  are  not  finished;  but  neither  are  her  models  and  the 
lives  in  which  they  will  figure.  The  little  book  has  a  tantalizing  charm  of 
suggestiveness. 

Frau  Viebig  has  in  her  latest  novel  returned  to  an  older  manner. 
' Absolvo  te'  (Egon  Fleischel  &  Co.,  Berlin),  the  story  of  a  young  girl, 
married  by  her  mother  to  a  wealthy  old  man,  is  told  with  the  directness 
which  has  once  made  the  author  rank  with  the  greatest  disciples  of  Zola 
in  Germany.  The  daughter  of  a  schoolmaster,  the  heroine  has  a  modest 
education  and  can  claim  a  refinement  quite  unusual  in  the  country  place, 
whither  she  has  come  as  wife  of  Herr  Tiralla,  a  typical  Gutsbesitzer  of  the 
province  of  Posen,  good-natured,  ignorant  and  coarse.  The  mother  did 
not  long  witness  the  material  prosperity  and  marital  misery  of  her  child. 
The  young  wife  had  in  her  youth  been  inclined  toward  a  semi-spiritual, 
semi-sensuous  devotion  to  the  church,  and  never  forgiven  the  mother  for 
marrying  her  to  an  old  brute  of  bibulous  habits.  Even  when  a  little  girl 
is  born  to  them,  the  parents  remain  strangers.  The  child  has  inherited 
the  mother's  religious  nature  and  as  she  grows  up,  shows  symptoms  of 
religious  hysteria.  While  she  has  heavenly  visions  in  her  room,  the  father 
in  his  apartment  consumes  greater  and  greater  quantities  of  liquor.  The 
idea  of  getting  rid  of  him  becomes  an  idiosyncrasy  with  Frau  Tiralla,  long 


AMELIA  VON  ENDE  4" 

before  her  unspent  woman  love  finds  a  worthy  object  in  the  friend  of  her 
step-son.  All  this  is  told  with  a  virile,  but  not  repulsive  realism.  The 
atmosphere  of  the  story  is  hot  with  the  breath  of  strife  in  the  breast  of  Frau 
Tiralla  and  Martin  Becker.  When  death  comes  to  the  old  man  by  his  own 
hands,  and  Martin  leaves  the  house,  Frau  Tiralla  reads  in  the  ecstatic 
eyes  of  her  daughter  that  forgiveness,  which  even  her  confessor  might  deny 
the  unfortunate  woman.     '  Absolvo  ^^'  is  a  very  powerful  book. 

Books  on  Schiller  are  still  appearing  on  the  market.  An  important 
little  volume  was  recently  added  to  the  series  called  'Die  Kultur'  (Bard, 
Marquardt  &  Co.,  Berlin).  It  is  entitled  'Schiller's  Weltanschauung  und 
unsere  Zeity^  and  the  author  is  Alexander  von  Gleichen-Russwurm.  Calling 
poets  the  conscience  of  their  nation,  he  is  of  the  opinion  that  Germany  has 
failed  to  reach  the  goal  which  Schiller  had  cherished.  His  ideal  reading 
of  life  lacks  the  material  character  of  the  present  time.  It  is  constructive, 
while  the  present  is  destructive.  He  was  a  builder  who  would  have  hedged 
in  with  walls  whatever  he  thought  worthy  of  reverence.  Our  generation 
on  the  contrary  tears  down  the  walls.  The  author  defines  Schiller's  idea 
of  freedom,  and  emphasizes  the  fact,  that  the  poet  deemed  only  him  capable 
of  becoming  a  liberator,  who  had  the  proper  amount  of  reverence.  In 
Schiller's  ideas  about  the  aesthetical  education  of  mankind  the  author  sees 
a  valuable  ethical  factor.  He  would  have  the  poet  remain  our  leader  in 
the  world  of  beauty.  The  references  to  Schiller's  international  influence 
are  interesting.  Among  other  illustrations  there  is  the  reproduction  of 
a  miniature  of  Schiller  which  had  been  in  the  possession  of  Charlotte 
von  Kalb. 


TWO  SONNETS 

By  Harry  T.*  Baker 

The  Elizabethans  ' 

'Attempt!  attempt!'  the  inner  Genius  cried. 
Then  eager,  vast,  unconquerable  youth 
Opened  the  flood-gates,  and  the  crimson  tide 
Came  rushing,  heart  to  hand.     Tameless,  in  truth, 
Their  utterance,  yet  no  man  had  seen  of  yore 
The  virile  splendor  that  flashed  o'er  their  page. 
Bounds  they  admitted  none,  but  more  and  more 
Dared  and  accomplished  till  it  seemed  dull  age 
Could  ne'er  o'ertake  them.     To  the  verge  o'  the  world 
Quested  their  voyagers  of  soul  and  sea. 
Barbarians,  gods,  vv^ith  credulous  lips  uncurled, 
They  wrote,  unwitting,  for  eternity. 

Earth  bloomed  anew,  and,  while  these  voices  rang. 
The  primal  morning-stars  together  sang. 

After  Reading  Shakespeare^ s  Sonnets 

Are  these  but  trifles  of  his  empty  hours. 
His  cold  convention  after  passionate  flame 
In  Romeo  and  Antony  }     These  but  flowers 
Of  artifice,  and  love  a  dainty  name } 
Rather,  the  poet's  mighty  heart  beat  on 
In  truest  music,  murmuring  his  woe 
O'er  passion  Profitless  and  hope  forgone, 
Or  sounding  the  deep  joy  that  comrades  know. 
His  unrecording  century  stands  aloof. 
Austere  in  silence.     Cherish,  then,  the  few 
Inestimable  strains  what  whisper  proof 
Not  always  did  he  shun  our  eager  view: 

Though  Lear  and  Hamlet  mirrored  not  his  mind, 
Here  without  mask  he  greeted  all  mankind. 


412 


FIDELITY 

By  Catulle  Mendes 
Translated  by  R.  T.  House 

A  GOD  was  a  rich  shepherd  of  the  plain.  His  wife  left  her 
pitcher  on  the  earth  upon  a  day  when  the  sun  was  like 
fire.  She  laid  her  down  in  the  shade  of  a  tree,  and  there 
came  a  dream  to  her: 
She  dreamed  that  she  slept  sweetly  and  awoke 
hearing  the  voice  of  Agod  speaking  thus  and  commanding: 
'Let  us  arise;  for  I  sold  to  the  dealers  of  Segor,  a  year  and  half  a  year 
in  the  past,  five  score  of  sheep;  they  owe  me  yet  more  than  a  third  part 
of  the  purchase-money.  I  am  old  and  my  feet  are  heavy;  the  debtors  are 
far  hence.  Who  will  go  for  me  and  claim  the  debt  from  them  ^  How  may 
I  find  a  faithful  messenger?  Bring  thou  the  twenty  silver  pieces;  for  thus 
it  is  better.' 

His  docile  helpmeet  urged  not  the  lonely  desert,  nor  its  hungry  wild- 
beasts,  nor  its  cruel  robbers.  'I  am  thy  servant,'  she  said,  'speak  thy  will.' 
With  arm  extended,  'Thither'  said  the  shepherd;  and  then  without  loss  of 
time  she  took  her  mantle  of  wool  and  departed.  Her  feet  were  heavy  in 
the  way;  for  the  path  was  filled  with  sharp  stones.  Her  foot-soles  shed 
blood  and  her  eyes  shed  tears;  but  she  went  morning  and  evening  and 
paused  never  at  all.  The  terrible  night  came,  and  everything  was  black  and 
silent;  but  she  went  and  paused  not.  Then  she  heard  a  dreadful  cry, 
and  a  hand  of  iron  covered  her  mouth,  and  one  tore  her  mantle  and  thrust 
a  great  knife  into  her  breast  with  a  sure  thrust. 

She  awoke  in  great  fear  and  all  her  body  trembled.  Then  she  saw  her 
husband  at  her  side,  and  he  said:  'I  sold  to  the  dealers  of  Segor,  a  year 
and  half  a  year  in  the  past,  five  score  of  sheep;  they  owe  me  yet  more 
than  a  third  part  of  the  purchase-money.  I  am  old  and  my  feet  are  heavy; 
the  debtors  are  far  hence.  Who  will  go  for  me  and  claim  the  debt  from 
them  .''  How  may  I  find  a  faithful  messenger .''  Bring  thou  the  twenty 
silver  pieces;  for  thus  it  is  better.' 

The  faithful  helpmeet  answered,  'My  lord  and  master  has  spoken;  I 
am  ready.'  She  called  her  sons.  The  older  was  a  noble  boy,  and  she 
put  her  right  hand  about  his  neck.  And  she  kissed  the  little  brother,  and 
took  her  mantle  of  wool  and  departed  without  loss  of  time. 

413 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

IT  otten  occurs  to  us  that  in  this  age  when  every  one  has  something 
to  sav  and  wants  to  say  it  to  as  many  people  as  possible,  and  con- 
versely nobody  is  especially  anxious  to  hear  what  any  one  has  to 
say,  that  we  are  terribly  in  need  of  some  cheaper  way  of  repro- 
ducing our  thoughts  than  printing.  With  a  maximum  of  orators 
or  sages  or  seers  and  a  minimum  of  audience  of  laymen  it  is  next  to 
impossible  to  sell  enough  copies  of  anything  at  twenty-five  cents  to  pay  the 
printer's  bills,  let  alone  any  pay  for  the  kindly  sages  and  seers.  A  type- 
writing machine  which  when  one  played  upon  it  would  engrave  plates,  to  be 
run  off  by  oneself  on  a  hand  press,  would  convert  every  man  into  his  own 
printer  and  he  might  then  market  his  ideas  at  even  a  small  profit. 

*         *         * 

These  thoughts  have  been  inspired  by  the  appearance  of  a  new  infantile 
magazine  published  at  66  Cornhill,  and  called  'The  Inquisitor.'  It  conceals 
its  identity  behind  the  terrors  of  anonymity  like  the  inquisitors  of  old,  and 
frankly  admits  that  the  editors  are  not  millionaires,  and  though  not  'in- 
quisitioning'  for  money  they  would  be  grateful  for  as  many  'quarters'  as 
possible.  We  have  no  quarter  for  them,  but  we  should  like  to  be  able  to 
present  them  with  the  sort  of  type-writing  machine  it  is  our  dream  that 
somebody  will  some  day  invent,  for  we  sincerely  believe  that  all  the  people 
who  have  things  to  say  should  be  encouraged  to  say  them,  principally  for 
their  own  good,  for  after  a  while  they  will  suddenly  wake  up  to  the  fact 
that  millions  of  people  have  been  saying  similar  things  for  thousands  of 
years  and  after  that  whatever  they  say  will  be  said  with  becoming  modesty, 
or  at  least  with  some  consciousness  that  their  ideas  are  not  entirely  new  and 
startling. 

'The  Inquisitor'  warns  us  not  to  decide  positively  whether  we  like  it 
or  not  on  the  first  issue  and  we  are  not  going  to.  We  will  only  fill  up  its 
last  page  with  remarks  as  it  invites  us  to  do. 

*         *         * 

Its  editorial  platform  is  spiritual  freedom.  This  is  good!  But  it 
contends  that  the  world  has  well-nigh  freed  itself  from  physical  slavery, 
but  is  not  yet  spiritually  free.  Our  own  observations  of  society,  on  the 
contrary,  would  lead  us  to  the  exactly  opposite  conclusion,  namely  that 
there  is  a  vast  deal  more  of  physical  slavery  in  one  form  or  another  today, 
than  there  is  of  spiritual  slavery.     Another  article  pleads  for  the  living  of 

414 


LIFE  AND   LETTERS  415 

life  instead  of  the  realization  of  it  at  second  hand  through  novels  and  plays. 
It  does  not  appear  to  us  that  any  such  plea  is  needed.  We  should  rather 
have  thought  that  quite  an  alarming  number  of  people  were  experimenting 
in  their  own  lives  upon  the  ideas  which  modern  plays  and  novels  present 
to  them  and  with  effects  so  disastrous  that  they  ought  to  be  learning  by  this 
time  that  life  is  not  intended  to  be  experimented  with,  but  to  be  fashioned 
into  as  perfect  a  work  of  art  as  the  raw  material  will  permit.  Be  it  said 
that  the  experimenters,  who  think  they  are  living  life,  dodge  the  palpable, 
tragic  consequences  which  an  Ibsen  or  a  Sudermann  or  a  Hauptmann 
always  lay  upon  the  altar  of  the  eternally  right;  the  tragedy  with  these 
would-be  livers-of-life  is  the  gradual  killing  out  of  all  desire  for  that  which 
is  holy  and  true  and  beautiful  in  life,  and  the  sinking  into  contentment  with 
the  shams  of  emotional  phenomena.  But  possibly  the  writer  has  in  mind 
only  plays  that  tell  of  noble  and  great  actions;  perhaps  he  would  like  to  be 
a  John  the  Baptist,  rather  than  a  Peer  Gynt,  or  at  least  the  highway-man 
in  the  'Girl  from  the  Golden  West'  rather  than  the  sheriff. 

+         *         * 

Still  another  writer  doesn't  agree  with  Burbank  that  a  change  of 
environment  may  change  the  nature  of  a  human  being.  The  point  he  makes 
is  both  subtle  and  interesting;  he  writes,  'While  doing  homage  to  the  insight 
manifested  in  Burbank's  book,  we  would,  nevertheless,  submit  for  con- 
sideration exactly  the  opposite  view  of  the  relation  of  environment  and  the 
life  force,  to  wit:  that  so-called  environment  has  no  reactionary  causal  effect 
whatever  on  the  life-force,  but  that  an  apparent  effect  is  produced  by  the 
manifestation  of  this  life-force  through  a  different  environment,  as  flame 
would  appear  in  varied  forms  through  iron  gratings  of  different  patterns. 
Under  this  view,  change  of  environment  would  in  no  way  alter  the  nature 
of  the  human  being,  but  would  merely  supply  it  a  different  medium 
for  expression.  The  apparent  practical  effects  might  be  the  same, 
but  the  point  of  view  of  the  observer  or  experimenter  would 
be  quite  different.'  It  strikes  us  that  the  difference  of  opinion  here 
is  more  apparent  than  actual.  Burbank  would  not  claim,  for  example,  that 
a  cactus  could  be  changed  into  a  rose,  only  that  the  cactus  nature  may  be 
so  changed  that  it  will  become  a  much  nicer  cactus  —  all  its  Hne  points 
emphasized,  all  its  unpleasant  ones  suppressed.  Similarly,  given  a  child 
that  shows  a  tendency  to  cruelty  and  bravery,  if  trained  one  way  it  might 
grow  up  into  an  abnormally  daring  and  cruel  man,  trained  another  way, 
the  cruelty  might  be  completely  suppressed  and  the  bravery  emphasized 
so  that  when  it  attained  to  the  full  exercise  of  its  own  will,  it  would 
find  itself  possesed  of  the  fine  (juality  of  bravery  to  work  unhampered    by 


4i6  LIFE  AND   LE    FERS 

cTuclt\ .  Ihar  pcDplc  do  actually  develop  and  do  not,  upon  a  change  of 
envinnimcnt,  revert  to  past  modes  of  Action,  but  do  truly  gain  control  of 
their  bad  environment,  shows  that  environment  is  more  that  a  mere  medium 
of  expression  to  the  fully  conscious  being.  Consequently,  to  the  growing 
consciousness,  environment  may  be  made  a  means  of  permanently  turning 
the  nature  into  channels  for  its  best  development. 

*  *         * 

Another  article  plunges  bravely  into  a  discussion  of  free-will,  the 
writer  deciding  according  to  his  own  temperament,  as  this  subject  has  always 
been  settled  time  out  of  mind. 

Discussions  in  the  realm  of  philosophy  are  always,  however,  absorbingly 
interesting,  if  only  for  the  play  of  intellectual  faculty  which  they  bring  forth. 
We  hope  this  will  be  a  regular  feature  of  the  magazine. 

*  *         * 

As  usual  with  writers  of  the  day,  when  the  subject  of  women  is  touched 
upon,  the  opinions  expressed  give  a  rather  appalling  revelation  of  the  status 
of  the  masculine  mind  in  this  regard.  There  is  a  poem  not  bad  in  expression 
but  made  according  to  the  most  commonplace  of  receipts:  An  ounce  of 
love,  twenty-five  ounces  of  pain,  and  the  delights  of  secret  passion  according 
to  taste.  Can  it  be  possible  that  the  latest-day  poets  have  no  other  con- 
ception of  love  but  this,  or  is  it  a  disease  of  youth  ?  The  expression  of  a 
belief  in,  or  at  least  an  inspiration  toward  a  noble,  whole-hearted,  dignified 
love  would  be,  at  least,  a  pleasant  change.  Perhaps  the  day  may  come 
when  poets  will  be  as  much  ashamed  of  these  diseases  of  the  emotional 
nature  as  they  are  now  at  intellectual  or  physical  degeneracy. 


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